IT was a glaring afternoon in the short but fiery Russian summer. Two live pictures, one warm, one very cool, lay side by side.

A band of fifty peasant girls, in bright-spotted tunics, snow-white leggings, and turban handkerchiefs, blue, crimson, or yellow, moved in line across the pale green grass, and plied their white rakes with the free, broad, supple, and graceful movements of women whom no corset had ever confined and stiffened.

Close by this streak of vivid color, moving in afternoon haze of potable gold over gentle green, stood a grove of ancient birch-trees with great smooth silver stems; a cool brook babbled along in the deep shade; and on the carpet of green mosses, and among the silver columns, sat a lady with noble but hardish features, in a gray dress and a dark brown hood. Her attendant, a girl of thirteen, sparkled apart in pale blue, seated on the ground, nursing the lady's guitar.

This was the tamer picture of the two, yet, on paper, the more important, for the lady was, and is, a remarkable woman--Anna Petrovna Staropolsky, a true Russian aristocrat, ennobled, not by the breath of any modern ruler, but by antiquity, local sovereignty, and the land she and hers had held and governed for a thousand years.

It may throw some light upon her character to present her before and after the emancipation of her slaves.

Her family had never maltreated serfs within the memory of man, and she inherited their humanity.

For all that, she was very haughty; but then her towering pride was balanced by two virtues and one foible. She had a feminine detestation of violence--would not allow a horse to be whipped, far less a man or a woman. She was a wonderfully just woman, and, to come to her foible, she was fanatica per la musica; or, if aught so vulgar and strong as English may intrude into a joyous science whose terms are Italian, MUSIC MAD.

This was so well known all over her vast estates that her serfs, if they wanted new isbahs--alias log-huts--a new peal of forty church bells, mounting by perfect gradation from a muffin-man's up to a deaving dome of bell-metal, or, in short, any unusual favor, would get the priests or the deacons to versify their petition, and send it to the lady, with a solo, a quartet, and a little chorus. The following sequence of events could then be counted on. They would sing their prayer at her; she would listen politely, with a few winces; she would then ignore "the verbiage," as that intellectual oddity, the public singer, calls it, and fall tooth and nail upon the musical composition, correcting it a little peevishly. This done, she would proceed to their interpretation of their own music. "Let us read it right, such as it is," was her favorite formula.

When she had licked the thing into grammar and interpretation, her hard features used to mollify so, she seemed another woman. Then a canny moujik, appointed beforehand to watch her countenance, would revert for a moment to "the verbiage."

"Oh, as to that--" the lady would say, and concede the substantial favor with comparative indifference.

When the edict of emancipation came, and disarmed cruel proprietors, but took no substantial benefit from her without a full equivalent, she made a progress through her estates, and convened her people. She read and explained the ukase and the compensatory clauses, and showed them she could make the change difficult and disagreeable to them in detail. "But," said she, "I shall do nothing of the kind. I shall exact no impossible purchases nor crippling compensations from you. Our father the emperor takes nothing from me that I value, and he gives me good money, bearing five per cent, for indifferent land that brought me one per cent clear. He has relieved me of your taxes, your lawsuits, and your empty cupboards, and given me a good bargain, you a bad one. So let us settle matters beforehand. If you can make your fortunes with ten acres per house, in spite of taxes, increasing mouths, laziness, and your beloved corn-brandy, why I give you leave to look down on Anna Petrovna, for she is your inferior in talent, and talent governs the world nowadays. But if you find Independence, and farms the size of my garden, mean Poverty now, and, when mouths multiply, Hunger, then you can come to Anna Petrovna, just as you used, and we will share the good emperor's five per cents."

She was as good as her word, and made the change easy by private contracts in the spirit of the enactment, but more lenient to the serfs than its literal clauses.

By these means, and the accumulated respect of ages, she retained all the power and influence she cared for, and this brings me fairly to my summer picture. Those fifty peasant girls were enfranchised serfs who would not have put their hands to a rake for any other proprietor thereabouts. Yet they were working with a good heart for Anna Petrovna at fourpence per day, and singing like mavises as they marched. Catinka Kusminoff sang on the left of the band, Daria Solovieff on the right.

They were now commencing the last drift of the whole field, and would soon sweep the edge of the grove, where Madame Staropolsky--as we English should call her--sat pale and listless. She was a widow, and her only son had betrayed symptoms of heart-disease. Sad reminiscences clouded those lofty but somewhat angular features, and she looked gloomy, hard and severe.

But it so happened that as the band of women came alongside this grove, which bounded the garden from the fields, Daria Solovieff took up the song with marvelous power and sweetness. She was all unconscious of a refined listener: it was out of doors, she was leading the whole band, and she sang out from a chest and frame whose free play had never been confined by stays, and with a superb voice, all power, volume, roundness, sweetness, bell-like clearness, and that sympathetic eloquence which pierces and thrills the heart.

In most parts of Europe this superb organ would have sung out in church, and been famous for miles around. But the Russians are still in some things Oriental; only men and boys must sing their anthems; so the greatest voice in the district was unknown to the greatest musician. She stood up from her seat and actually trembled--for she was Daria's counterpart, organized as finely to hear and feel as Daria to sing. The lady's lofty but hardish features seemed to soften all their outlines as she listened, a complacent, mild, and rapt expression overspread them, her clear gray eyes moistened, melted, and deepened, and lo! she was beautiful!

She crept along the grove, listening, and when the sound retired, directed her little servant to follow the band and invite Daria to come and help her prune roses next day.

The invitation was accepted with joy, for the work was pleasant, and the remuneration for working in Anna Petrovna's garden was not money, but some article of female dress or ornament. It might be only a ribbon or a cotton handkerchief, but even then it would be worth more than a woman's wage, and please her ten times more: the contemplation of a chiffon is a sacred joy, the feel of fourpence a mere human satisfaction.

So the next day came Daria, a tall, lithe, broad-shouldered lass, very fair, with hair like a new sovereign--pardon, oh, race Slavonic, my British similes! marvelous white skin, and color like a delicate rose, eyes of deep violet, and teeth incredibly white and even.

When she went among the flowers she just seemed to be one of them.

The lady of the house came out to her with gauntlets and scissors, and a servant and a gig umbrella, whereat the child of nature smiled, and revealed much ivory.

Madame snipped off dead roses along with her for nearly half an hour, then observed, "This is a waste of time. Come under that tree with me. Now sing me that song you sang yesterday in the field."

The fair cheek was dyed with blushes directly. "Me sing before you, Anna Petrovna!"

"Why not? Come, Daria, do not be afraid of one old woman who loves music, and can appreciate you better than most. Sing to me, my little pigeon."

The timid dove, thus encouraged, fixed her eyes steadily on the ground and cooed a little song.

The tears stood in the lady's eyes. "You are frightened still," said she; "but why? See, I do not praise you, and I weep. That is the best comment. You will not always be afraid of me."

"Oh, no; you are so kind."

Daria's shyness was soon overcome, and every other day she had to come and play at gardening a bit, then work at music.

When the winter came her patroness could not do without her. She sent for old Kyril, Daria's father, and offered to adopt her. He did not seem charmed; said she was his only daughter; and he should miss her.

"Why, you will marry her, and so lose her," said madame.

He admitted that was the custom. "The go-between arranges a match, and one daughter after another leaves the nest. But I have only this one, and she is industrious, and a song-bird; and I have forbidden the house to all these old women who yoke couples together blindfold. To be sure, there is a young fellow, a cousin of mine, comes over from the town on Sundays and brings Daria flowers, and me a flask of vodka."

"Then he is welcome to one of you?"

"As snow to sledge-horses; but Daria gives him little encouragement. She puts up with him, that is all."

"You would like a good house, and fifty acres more than the ten a bountiful State bestows on you, rent free forever."

"Forgive me for contradicting you, Anna Petrovna; I should like them extremely."

"And I should like to adopt Daria."

The tender father altered his tone directly. "Anna Petrovna, it is not our custom to refuse you anything."

"And it is not your custom to lose anything by obliging me."

"That is well known."

After this, of course, the parties soon came to an understanding.

Daria was to be adopted, and some land and a house made over to her and her father as joint proprietors during his lifetime, to Daria after his decease.

Daria, during her father's lifetime, was to live with Madame Staropolsky as a sort of humble but valued companion.

When it was all settled, the only one of the three who had a misgiving was the promoter.

"This song-bird," said she to herself, "has already too much power over me. How will it be when she is a woman? Her voice bewitches me. She has no need to sing; if she but speaks she enchants me. Have I brought my mistress into the house?" This presentiment flashed through her mind, but did not abide at that time.

One Sunday she saw Daria strolling along the road with a young man. He parted with her at the door, but was a long time doing it, and gave her some flowers, and lingered and looked after her.

Anna Petrovna felt a twinge, and the next moment blushed for herself. "What! jealous!" said she. "The girl has certainly bewitched me."

She asked Daria, carelessly, who the young man was. Daria made no secret of the matter. "It is only Ivan Ulitch Koscko, who comes many miles every Sunday."

"To court you?"

"I suppose it is."

"Does he love you?"

"He says so."

"Do you love him?"

"Not much; but he is very good."

"Is he to marry you?"

"I don't know. I would rather be as I am."

"I wonder which you love best--that young man or me?"

"I could never love a young man as I love you, Anna Petrovna. It is quite different."

Madame Staropolsky looked keenly at her to see whether this was audacious humbug or pure innocence, and it appeared to be the latter; so she embraced her warmly. Then Daria, who did not lack intelligence, said, "If you wish it, I will ask Ivan Ulitch not to come again."

This would have been agreeable to Madame Staropolsky, but her sense of justice stepped in. "No," said she; "I will interfere with no prior claims."

This lady played the violin in tune; the violoncello sonorously, not snorously; the piano finely; and the harp to perfection.

She soon enlarged her pupil's musical knowledge greatly, but was careful not to alter her style, which indeed was wonderfully natural, and full of genius. She also instructed her in history, languages, and arithmetic, and seemed to grow younger now she had something young to teach.

Christmas came, and her son Alexis was expected, his education at St. Petersburg being finished. Until this year he had not visited these parts for some time. His mother used to go to the capital to spend the winter vacation with him there; the summer at Tsarskoe. But there was a famous portrait of him at seven years of age--a lovely boy, with hair like new-burnished copper, but wonderful dark eyes and brows, his dress a tunic and trousers of purple silk, the latter tucked into Wellington boots, purple cap, with a short peacock's feather. We have Gainsborough's blue boy, but really this might be called the Russian purple boy. A wonder-striking picture of a beautiful original.

Daria had often stood before this purple boy, and wondered at his beauty. She even thought it was a pity such an angel should ever grow up, and deteriorate into a man.

The sledge was sent ten miles to meet Alexis, and while he was yet three miles distant the tinkling of the bells announced him. On he came, at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, with three horses--a powerful black trotter in the middle, and two galloping bays, one on each side, all three with tails to stuff a sofa and manes like lions. Everybody in the village turned out to welcome him; every dog left his occupation and followed him on the spot; the sledge dashed up to the front veranda, the ready doors flew open, the family were all in the hall, ready with a loving welcome; and the thirty village dogs, having been now and then flogged for their hospitality, stood aloof in a semicircle, and were blissful with excitement, and barked sympathetic and loud. When the mother locked the son in her arms the tears stood in Daria's eyes; but she was disappointed in his looks, after the picture; to be sure, he was muffled to the nose in furs, and his breath, frozen flying, had turned his mustache and eyebrows into snow. Beard he had none, or he might have passed for Father Christmas--and he was only twenty.

But in the evening he was half as big, and three times as handsome.

His mother made Daria sing to him, and he was enraptured.

He gazed on her all the time with two glorious black eyes, and stealing a glance at him, as women will, she found him, like his mother, beautified by her own enchantment, and he seemed to resemble his portrait more and more.

From that first night he could hardly take his eyes off her. These grand orbs, always dwelling on her, troubled her heart and her senses, and by degrees elicited timid glances in return. These and the seductions of her voice completed his conquest, and he fell passionately in love with her. She saw and returned his love, but tried innocent artifices to conceal it. Her heart was in a tumult. Hitherto she had been as cool as a cucumber with Ivan and every other young man, and wondered what young women could see so attractive in them. Now she was caught herself, and fluttered like a wild bird suddenly caged.

Ivan Ulitch Koscko, who could not make her love him, used to console himself for her coolness by saying it was her nature--a cool affection and moderate esteem was all she had to give to any man. So many an endured lover talks; but suddenly the right man comes, and straightway the icy Hecla reveals her infinite fires.

Alexis soon found an opportunity to tell Daria he adored her.

She panted with happiness first, and hid her blushing face, but the next moment she quivered with alarms.

"Oh, no, no," she murmured, "you must not! What have I done? Your mother--she would never forgive me. It was not to steal her son's heart she brought me here." And the innocent girl was all misgivings, and began to cry.

Alexis consoled her and kissed her tears away, and would not part with her till she smiled again, and interchanged vows of love and constancy with him.

Under love's potent influence she left him radiant.

But when she thought it all over, and him no longer there to overpower her, her misgivings grew, and she was terrified. She had an insight into character, and saw beneath the surface of Anna Petrovna. That lady loved her, but would hate her if she stole the affections of her son, her idol.

Daria's deep eyes fixed themselves all of a sudden on the future. "Misfortune is coming here," she said.

Then she crossed herself, bowed her head piously in that attitude, and prayed long and earnestly.

Then she rose and went straight to Anna Petrovna. She found her knitting mittens for Alexis.

She sat at her feet, and said wearily, "Anna Petrovna, I ask leave to go home."

"Why? what is the matter?"

"My father."

"Is he unwell?"

"No. But he has not seen me for some time."

"Is it for long?"

"Not very long."

Anna Petrovna eyed her steadily. "Perhaps you are like me, of a jealous disposition in your little quiet way. Tell the truth now, my pigeon, you are jealous of Alosha."

"Me jealous of Alexis?"

"Oh, jealousy spares neither age nor sex. Come, you are--just a little. Confess now."

Daria was surprised; but she was silent at first; and then, being terribly afraid lest one so shrewd should discover her real sentiments, she had the tact and the. self-defensive subtlety to defend herself so tamely against this charge that she left the impression but little disturbed.

Anna Petrovna determined to cure her by kindness, so she said, "Well, you shall go next week. But to-day we expect our cousin Vladimir Alexéitch Plutitzin on a short visit. He is musical, and I cannot afford to part with you while he is here."

Then Daria's heart bounded with delight. She had tried to go away, but was forcibly detained in paradise.

Vladimir Alexéitch Plutitzin arrived--a keen, dark gentleman, forty years old, and a thorough man of the world; a gamester and a roué, bully or parasite, whichever suited his purpose; but most agreeable on the surface, and welcome to Madame Staropolsky on that account and his relationship. He seemed so shallow she had never taken the trouble to look into him.

His principal object in this visit was to borrow money, and as he could not do that all in a moment, he looked forward to a tedious visit.

But this fair singer made all the difference. He was charmed with her, and began to pay her attentions in the drollest way, half spooney, half condescending. He was very pertinacious, and Daria was rather offended, and a little disgusted. But all she showed was complete coolness and civil apathy.

Vladimir Alexéitch, having plenty of vanity and experience, did not accept this as Ivan did. "This cucumber is in love with somebody," said he; and he looked out very sharp. He saw at once that Alexis was wrapped up in her, but that she was rather shy of him, and on her guard. That puzzled him a little. However, one Sunday he detected her talking with a young man under the front veranda. It was not love-making after the manner of Vladimir Alexéitch, but they seemed familiar and confidential: clearly he was the man.

Vladimir burned with spite; and he wreaked it. He went into the drawing-room, and there he found Alexis and his mother seated apart. So he began upon Alexis. He said to him, too low for his mother to hear, "So our cantatrice has a lover."

Alexis stared, then changed color. "Daria a lover--who?" He thought at first his own passion had been discovered by this shrewd person.

"Oh, that is more than I can tell you. Some fellow of her own class, though. He is courting her at this moment."

Alexis turned ashy pale, and his lips blue. "I'll believe that when I see it," said he, stoutly.

"See it, then, in the veranda," was the calm reply.

With that the serpent glided on to the mother.

Alexis waited a moment, and then sauntered out, with a ghastly attempt at indifference.

Once in the hall, he darted to the door, opened it, and found Daria and her faithful Ivan in calm conversation. The sight of the young man was enough for Alexis. He said, angrily, "Daria, my mother wants you immediately."

"Farewell, then, Ivan," said Daria, submissively, and entered the house at once. Alexis stood and cast a haughty stare on Ivan; and the poor fellow, who had walked ten miles for a word or two with Daria, returned disappointed.

MEANTIME Anna Petrovna asked Vladimir Alexéitch what he had said to Alexis. "Oh, nothing particular; only that our fair cantatrice had a lover."

"Why, that is no news," said the lady. "But indeed he is not much of a lover, and I hope it will come to nothing. That is very selfish, for he is an old friend and a faithful one to her. His mother kept the district school at Griasansk, and taught Daria to read and write and work. Her son is a notary's clerk, and assisted her in her learning. Let me tell you she is a very fair scholar, not an ignorant savage like the rest of these girls. To be sure her father has a head on his shoulders, and had sent her to school, contrary to the custom of the country."

That favorite topic of hers, the praises of her protégée, was cut unnaturally short by Daria in person. She came in, and gliding up to her patroness with a sweet inclination of her whole body, said, "You sent for me, Anna Petrovna. Alexis Pavlovitch told me."

"Indeed! Then he divined my thought. But I did not send for you; I heard your friend was with you."

"He was."

"What have you done with him?"

"I told him to go."

"That you might come to me?"

"Certainly."

"That was rather hard upon him."

"It does not matter," said Daria, composedly.

"Not to you, Daria; that is evident."

Alexis came in, and flung himself into a chair, manifestly discomposed. Daria cast a swift glance at him, then looked down.

Anna Petrovna surprised this lightning glance and looked at her son, and then at Vladimir; then she turned her eyes inward, mystified and inquiring, and from that hour seemed to brood occasionally, and her features to stiffen.

Vladimir watched his poison work. Some days afterward he joked Alexis about his passion for a girl who was already provided with a lover, but found him inaccessible to jealousy. The truth is, he and Daria had come to an explanation. "She loves nobody but me," said the young man, proudly; "and no other man but me shall ever have her; not even you, my clever cousin."

"Oh, I make way for the head of the house, as in duty bound," said sneering Vladimir. "But when you have got her all to yourself, what do you mean to do with her? I am afraid, Alexis, she will get you into trouble. Her people are respectable. Your mother's morals are severe. She is attached to the girl. What on earth can you do with her?"

"I mean to marry her, if she will have me."

"Do what?"

"Marry her, man. What else can I do?"

Vladimir was incredulous, and amused at first; then taking a survey of the young man's face, he saw there the iron resolution that he had observed in the boy's mother. He looked aghast. Alexis marry this blooming peasant--a woman of another race, a child of nature! She would fill that sterile house with children, and he would die the beggar that he was. Vladimir did not speak all at once. At last he said, "You cannot; you are not of age."

"I shall be soon."

"Your mother would never consent."

"I fear not."

"Well, then--"

"I shall marry Daria."

When Alexis said this, and looked him full in the face, Vladimir turned his cold, pale, Tartar eye away, and desperate thoughts flashed across him. Indeed he felt capable of assassination. But prudence and the cunning of his breed suggested crafty measures first.

He controlled himself with a powerful effort, and said quietly, "Such a marriage would break your mother's heart; and she has been a good friend to me. I cannot abet you in it. But I am sorry I treated a serious matter with levity."

Then he left him, and his brain went to work in earnest.

The truth is that a more dangerous man than Vladimir Alexéitch Plutitzin never entered an honest house. Crafty and selfish by nature, he was also by this time practically versed in wiles; and his great expectations, should Alexis die without issue, and his present ruin, made him think little of crime, though not of detection.

He was too cunning to go and tell Anna Petrovna all at once and so reveal the mischief-maker to Alexis. He was silent days and days, but went into brown studies before Anna Petrovna, to attract her attention. He succeeded. She began to watch him as well as her son; and at last she said to him one day, "There is something mysterious going on in this house, Vladimir."

"Ah, you have discovered it?"

"I have discovered there is something. What is it, if you please?"

"I do not like to tell you; and yet I ought, for you have been a good friend to me, and if I do not warn you, you will perhaps doubt my regard. I don't know what to do."

"Shall I help you? Alexis and Daria!"

"There, then, you have seen it."

"I see he is extasié with her, and no wonder, since I am. Luckily she has too much good sense."

"Anna Petrovna, my dear kinswoman and benefactress, it is my duty to undeceive you. She is more timid and more discreet, because she is a woman; but she is just as much in love. It is a passionate attachment on both sides, and--how shall I tell you?--marriage is to be the end of it!"

"Marriage! My son--and my serf!"

"Serfs exist no more. We are all ladies and gentlemen, thanks to God and the czar."

Anna Petrovna turned pale and her features hard as iron. "Viper," said she, not violently, but sadly. Then her breath came short, and she could not speak.

But after a little while this just woman half recanted. "No," said she, "I had no right to say that. She sought me not; I brought her into this house, and she was a treasure to me. I brought him into the house, and she saw her danger and asked leave to go. But I, who ought to have been wiser than she, had no forethought. I have made my own trouble, and it is for me to mend it. There shall be no discussion on this subject. You must not let Alexis know you have spoken to me, nor shall I speak to him."

Vladimir consented eagerly. It was not his game to quarrel with Alexis.

That very afternoon Madame Staropolsky said to Daria, "Daria, my little soul, you were right and I was wrong; you shall visit your father this afternoon."

Daria turned red and white by turns, and acquiesced, trembling at what this might mean. Two maids were sent to assist her in packing. That gave her no chance of delay.

In one hour a large sledge came round, filled with presents for her father. Anna Petrovna blessed her fervently, but with a feminine distinction kissed her coldly, enveloped her in rich furs, and packed her off sans cérémonie. She dashed over the hard snow for a mile or two, then through the village, sore envied, and followed by each cur, and at last landed triumphantly at her own farm and her father's, warmly welcomed, admired, and barked after; only the tears trickled down her cheeks from the door she quitted to the door she reached.

That evening the house looked blank. Everybody missed Daria, and Alexis kept looking at the door for her. At last he asked, with indifference ill feigned, what had become of her.

"Oh," said his mother, "she has gone home. She wished to go last month, but I detained her. I wished you so to hear her sing."

She then turned the conversation adroitly and resolutely.

But Alexis as resolutely declined to utter anything but monosyllables. He could conceal neither his anger nor his unhappiness. He avoided the house, except at meals, yawned in Vladimir's face, and even in his mother's, and once, when she asked, tenderly, why he was so dull, replied that the house had lost its sunshine and its music.

This was a cruel stab to Anna Petrovna. She replied, grimly, "Then we will go to Petersburg earlier than usual, dear."

One day he cleared up and became as charming as ever.

Anna Petrovna, whose mother's heart had yearned for him, was comforted, and said to Vladimir, "Ah, youth soon forgets. Dear Alexis has come to his senses and recovered his spirits."

"So I see," was the reply. "But I do not interpret that as you do. I take it for granted he sees the girl every day."

"What!" said Madame Staropolsky, "under her father's roof? He would not wrong me so, after all I have done for him. But I should like to know."

Artful Vladimir took her hand tenderly. "I don't like spying on Alexis, but you have a right to know, and you shall know."

She pressed his hand gratefully, then left him, with a deep maternal sigh.

In a few days he made her his report. Alexis rode straight to the farm every day, and spent hours with Daria. Her father encouraged him, and indeed ordered the girl to receive him as her betrothed lover.

The mother's features set themselves like iron, but she uttered no impatient word this time. She just directed her servants to pack for Petersburg.

When Alexis heard this he said he should prefer to stay behind until the full summer.

"No, my son," said Madame Staropolsky calmly; "you must not abandon me altogether. If I have lost your affection, I retain my authority."

"So be it; I must obey," said he, doggedly. "I am not of age. I shall be soon, though, thank Heaven."

The iron pierced through the mother's heart. She winced, but she did not deign to speak.

That evening Alexis did not come home to dinner. He arrived about ten o'clock, with his eyes red and swollen, would take nothing but a glass of tea, and so to bed.

At the sight of his inoffensive sorrow the mother's bowels began to yearn over her son. "Oh, my friend," said she to her worst enemy, "what shall I do? He will not live long." Vladimir pricked up his ears at that. "Aneurism of the heart--very slight at present, but progressive. Why poison his short life? She is virtuous. It is only her birth. I am a miserable mother."

Her crafty counselor trembled, but his cunning did not desert him.

"And I can't bear to see you weep," said he. "Yes, try the capital and its female attractions, and if they fail, let him marry his enfranchised serf and found a plebeian line. I would rather endure that shame than see you and him really unhappy. But if you only knew how many of these unfortunate attachments I have seen cured, and the patient begin by hating and end by thanking his physician!"

"We will go to Petersburg to-morrow," said the lady, firmly.

They made the journey accordingly. They took a house on the Krestoffsky Island, and by advice of Vladimir furnished both Alexis and himself with large funds, aided by which this mentor set himself to corrupt his pupil.

Everything is to be bought in capitals, and the Russian capital contained women of good position who were easily tempted to feign attachment to this Adonis, and cajole him with superlative art, which, by the way, in one case became nature through the lovely baroness falling really in love with him. With the assistance of these charmers, and constant letters from Daria, which he took the precaution to receive at a post-office, and post his own letters with his own hand, he passed three months rather gayly. He saw he was being cunningly dealt with, and being a Slav himself, he kept demanding money for his pleasures and certain imaginary debts of honor, and hoarding it for a virtuous and imprudent purpose.

As for Vladimir, he became easy about his pupil, and pushed his own interests with the aid of his grateful patroness. Her vast lands and her economy had made her prodigiously rich, and by consequence powerful, and, with her influence and the money she furnished, Vladimir got the promise of a police mastership in a town and district about seventy miles distant from Smirnovo.

But all of a sudden his complacency and the tranquillity of his patroness received a shock. Alexis disappeared, in spite of all the money invested to cure him of a virtuous attachment by pleasure, folly, and a little vice, if the good work could not be achieved without it. For some days he was sought high and low in St. Petersburg, and the police reaped a harvest before they found out, or at all events before they revealed, that he had hired a traveling carriage, taken a permis de voyage, and gone south post-haste.

Anna Petrovna hurled Vladimir after him, and Vladimir, whose appointment was just signed, donned a uniform, and when he left the railway demanded post-horses anywhere in the name of the law, and achieved the journey to Smirnovo faster even than Alexis.

He dashed up to the door of the house. It flew open, as usual, without knock or ring.

"Alexis Pavlovitch?"

"Not here."

"Has he not been here?"

"Yes, slept here one night about two days ago."

Vladimir made no noise, but into his carriage again, and away to Daria's cottage.

Empty, all but an old woman as deaf as a post, and put in charge for no other reason.

From her he could get nothing; from the neighbors only this, that the old man and his daughter and Alexis had set forth on a journey, and neither they nor the troika nor the horses had been heard of since.

Plutitzin returned crest-fallen to headquarters, wrote to Anna Petrovna, and then went to bed for twenty-four hours.

Next day he put on his uniform, galloped about the country, and tried to learn the direction those three fugitives had taken.

He cajoled, he threatened. "They mean marriage," said he, "and the man is a minor. His marriage will be annulled, and all who have aided and abetted him sent to Siberia."

The simple country folk swallowed this brag, coming out of a uniform. They trembled and offered conjectures, having no facts; and then he swore at them and galloped elsewhere. But when he had ridden two horses lame, it struck him all of a sudden that he was acting like a fool. Why hunt these culprits in the neighborhood they had left?

Within eighty miles--a mere step in Russia--was his new post, at Samara, and all the machinery of his office; here he was but a private person, cased in an irrelevant uniform.

That very night he wrote to the municipal authorities of Samara, and let them know he should arrive at his official residence on the morning of next Thursday.

He gave just time for this missive to get ahead of him, and then started. But he made two days of it, and inquired at all the stages. Nor were these inquiries fruitless.

Thirty miles from home he struck the scent of the fugitives, and they seemed really to have anticipated his track; but then it was nearly three weeks ago.

At the last stage before Samara he donned his uniform, and a glorious military decoration he had obtained before he left the army of his own accord, because he was threatened with an inquiry based on his neglect to pay debts at cards, and thus resplendent he drew near the scene of his future power and glory--stipend moderate, money to be obtained by bribes indefinite.

As he surmounted a rising ground three miles from the town, a peal of musical church bells broke out--one of the drollest and prettiest things in Russia, on account of the bells ranging over three octaves, and the curious skill of the ringers in sometimes running a series, sometimes leaping off treble lowers into profound wells of melody. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, b-o-m-e. Tinkle, bome, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, bome.

All this tintinnabulation and boomen gratified Vladimir's vanity. With what quick eyes had Adulation seen the coming magnate, and with what watchful fingers rung him into the town of Samara! so Vladimir read "the bells." He smiled, well pleased, and longed to be there; but he had another rise to surmount first, and as his jaded horses plodded up it, down glided an open calêche, with glossy and swift horses, and in it sat Alexis and Daria, hand in hand; she with her cheek all love and blushes on his shoulder; he seated erect and conscious, her protector and her lord.

The carriages passed each other rapidly; but in that moment Alexis drew himself higher, if possible, and his black eye flashed a flame of unspeakable triumph on his baffled pursuer.

Then there whirled through the brain of Vladimir some such thoughts as these: "Without her father--church bells--that look of triumph--useless to follow them--let him have her--she will keep him from marrying till he dies--this marriage illegal--I will annul it on the spot--quietly,"

Revolving the details of this villainous scheme, he entered the town of Samara.

VLADIMIR went straight to the church. The priest's office was vacant by his recent decease. The deacon was there. Vladimir terrified the simple man; told him he had taken part in an illegal act--the marriage of two minors, one of them under a false name. The woman, a lady of rank; the soi-disant Alexis an enfranchised serf, whose real name was Kusmin Petroff.

"Is it possible?" said the dismayed deacon. "Why, her father attended the ceremony."

"Her father! Did he look like a nobleman?"

"No; more like a respectable peasant."

"Of course. It was her major-domo," said the unblushing Vladimir, "and it will cost him a trip to Siberia; and if you are wise you will endeavor not to accompany him."

"My father," said the poor man, "it all seemed honest; they sojourned here--more than a fortnight. Their banns were published. You cannot suspect me of complicity. I implore you not to bring me into trouble."

"Oh, as to that," said the chief of police, "all depends on your present conduct. Noble families do not love public scandal. If you place yourself under my orders now, I dare say I shall be able to protect you."

These terms were eagerly accepted.

"Now, then," said this grim functionary, "is this sham marriage registered?"

"Only on a slip of paper, preparatory to my entering it on the register."

"You will hand that paper to me."

"Here it is, my father."

"And the book of registration."

"Yes," said the deacon, faintly.

"A much higher authority than I care to name will decide whether there shall be a correct entry or none at all. While his imperial maj--while this grave matter is under consideration, make all future entries on loose paper pro tem."

The book was handed over to the chief policeman, and returned in three weeks, with the remark that it had been to St. Petersburg in the interval.

The simple deacon received it with a genuflection. He thought that it had passed through the sacred hands of the father of his people.

Meantime Vladimir wrote to Anna Petrovna and told her all, addressed the letter, and burned it. He remembered that she had wavered, and, besides, he recollected her character. She was too scrupulous to co-operate with him in his sinister views, and indeed had not the same temptation.

He wrote briefly to say that Alexis and Daria were living together as man and wife, and it was even reported that he had deceived her with a form of marriage; but that might be untrue.

Anna Petrovna wrote back to say she should return to Smirnovo at once, and summoned him to her side, "for," said she, "I am alone in the world."

Instead of melting into tears at the sad words, Vladimir's eyes flashed with greed. The other day a pauper, and now all the domain of his powerful relative seemed to be separated from him only by one life, and that life not only precarious but doomed.

He left his post directly, appointed a substitute, who was to communicate with him on important occasions, and he was at Smirnovo to receive Anna Petrovna. She came, worn out with fatigue and the struggles of her maternal heart, and next day she was seriously ill. Physicians sent for--advised darkened room--relief from business and anxieties--and poisoned her a little with mild narcotics.

Vladimir now read all her letters, and replied to all except two. These were from Alexis and Daria, entreating pardon, with a filial anxiety, and a loving tenderness that would have melted the mother at once. But this domestic fiend suppressed them, and the young pair got no reply whatever.

This marred in some degree their short-lived happiness. Still, they hoped all from time, and recovering by degrees the cruel rebuff, they were so happy that every day they blessed each other, and wondered whether any other mortals had attained such bliss on this side heaven.

Alas! in the midst of their paradise Fate struck them down. Alarming symptoms attacked Alexis. Physicians were sent for, one after another, and all looked grave. Daria wrote wildly to his mother: "He is dying. Come, if you love him better than I do. Come, and take him from me forever. Only save him." Hope rose and fell, then dwindled altogether. Daria watched him day and night, and eyed every doctor's face so piteously that they had not the heart to speak out, but their looks and tones were volumes. At last the greatest physician in the empire came and stood with his confrères over that sad bed. He felt the patient's heart, his head, his limbs. He said but one word:

"Moribundus."

Then he retired without losing a moment more, where science was as vain as ignorance.

Vladimir did not let Anna Petrovna see Daria's letter, but he went to her, and said, with agitation real or feigned, "I hear Alexis is ill. I must go to him. I love the boy. If he is seriously ill, let me tell him you forgive him. Do not run a risk of shortening his life."

The poor mother trembled, wept, and assented, and the hypocrite became dearer to her than ever.

He started at once for Petersburg, and, traveling day and night, soon reached the pleasant villa from which Daria's letter was written.

Outside were pink sun-blinds, marble pillars festooned with creepers, and all the luxuries of civilized existence; inside, the dire realities of life--the husband a corpse, the wife raving, and both of them in their prime. That no cruel feature might be absent, an official stood there, like an iron pillar, demanding the immediate interment of him who, according to nature, had just begun to live.

There was no more temptation to be cruel. Vladimir buried the husband, got two good professional nurses for the wife, wrote feeling letters to the bereaved mother, and invited Daria's father to come to her at once. He even deceived himself into believing he was very sorry for all the hearts that were broken by this blow, and that he stayed in the capital to keep guard over the house of mourning, whereas what he stayed for was to enjoy the pleasures of the capital, and get himself appointed by the State administrator to Alexis, who, like most that love well, had died intestate, and left his love to battle for the rights he could have secured her by a stroke of the pen in season.

Alexis had drawn the rents of Staropolsk, his patrimony, and there was money in the house; but Vladimir thought it wise to connive at that, and fasten on a larger booty. Though older in years, he was somehow heir at law to Alexis, and being administrator, had only to help himself.

From such a mind it is a relief to turn to sacred sorrow. An old man conveyed home by easy stages a pale young woman in a full cap, worn to hide the loss, by grief and brain-fever, of her lovely golden hair. It was the broken-hearted Daria.

A mother bereaved of her only son sought comfort in religion, and awaited her own summons, with thanks to God that she had not many years to live alone in this cruel world. This was the brave Anna Petrovna.

IN the second month of her widowhood her father told Daria she ought to demand her third.

"My third!" said she. "I have lost him, and would you comfort me with his money?" And she burst into such passionate weeping that the old man promised faithfully not to renew the subject.

In the fourth month of her widowhood she came and stood by her father as he was smoking a cigarette, put a hand light as a feather on his shoulder, looked down upon the floor, and said in a low but rather firm voice, "Yes."

"Yes, what?" asked the old man.

"You can ask for our thirds."

"Our thirds? Why, I have no claim."

"No, not you; but--"

"What! Daria, my little soul. You blush. Is it so? Never mind your old father. Yes; well, then, now you are a woman, and your thirds you shall have, the pair of ye, or I'm not a man."

By this time it was well known that Vladimir inherited and administered the estate of Alexis Pavlovitch Staropolsky, deceased; so Kyril Solovieff wrote to him with Russian politeness, hoped he was not premature or troublesome, but the widow of Alexis would be grateful if he would let her have her third, or a portion on account.

Vladimir, who had not been in a public office for nothing, wrote a line acknowledging receipt, and saying the matter should meet with due consideration.

And so it did. He did not like parting with a third, but he had vague fears of a public discussion. He felt inclined to write back that he could not recognize the marriage as a legal one, but would respect the sentiments of his deceased relative, and disburse to her the same sum as if the marriage had been legal.

But before he could quite make up his mind a report reached him which, vague as it was, alarmed him seriously. He instantly employed spies; and they soon let him know that Daria Solovieff asked for her thirds because she had another to provide for--the offspring of her beloved Alexis.

This was told him with such circumstance and detail as left no doubt possible; and so the weak woman, who the other day lay at his mercy, struck terror to the very bones of this Machiavel; and all the better. It is a comfort to find that in the scheme of nature the weak can now and then confound the strong and cruel.

War to the knife now! This serf spawn, if it lived, would inherit the lands of Staropolsk and Smirnovo. Vladimir must not by word or deed admit the marriage.

He wrote, and denied all legal claim, but offered 5,000 rubles out of respect for the memory of Alexis.

This was declined, and proceedings commenced. A lawyer got up the case for Daria, instructed by her father.

Vladimir prepared his own case, and spent money like water; got the deacon of Samara out of the way to a better place twelve hundred miles off; had famous counsel from St. Petersburg, etc.

The case was tried in the district court. The defense was, "No marriage at all, or else illegal by minority."

On the question of minority the defense was upset, the Solovieffs made a hit there: they brought witnesses out of the enemy's camp--the nurse of Alexis, who had noted the very hour of his birth, four o'clock in the morning of the 9th of May, 1846.

Now the witnesses swore he was married 9th of May, at 11 A. M.

Three witnesses who knew Alexis and had seen him married had been spirited away for the time by the gold of Plutitzin. Eighteen natives of the town gave secondary evidence--swore to the bride there present, and that the bridegroom was a young man with swarthy complexion and wonderful black eyes, who passed for Alexis Pavlovitch Staropolsky.

This evidence led up to the direct testimony of old Kyril Solovieff, that he had driven Alexis from Smirnovo to Samara, and given him at the altar his daughter there present.

The last witness was Daria herself. Her beauty and sorrow and angelic candor, coupled with her situation, which was now very manifest, and a touching justification of her proceedings, both in defense of her good name and her other rights, won every heart, and indeed made every word she spoke seem gospel truth.

She deposed to her adoption by Anna Petrovna, her courtship by Alexis, their separation, his fidelity, their sojourn in Samara, their marriage, their cohabitation, her refusal to take these proceedings until she found herself pregnant.

When she was taken, sobbing and half-fainting, out of the box, defense seemed impossible. Many persons present wept, and among them was a young lawyer, who never forgot that trial, never for a moment misunderstood a single point of it. It was the faithful, forgiving Ivan Ulitch Koscko.

The defendant's counsel rose calmly, and alleged fraud. He admitted the attachment between Alexis and the plaintiff, and argued that to possess this beautiful woman he had lent her his name, upon conditions which she and her friends never violated till death had closed his lips.

The person she had legally married was some tool bought for the job, and to leave the country forever, and make way for the real possesser but fictitious husband.

Then they put in the book of registry, and, with a certain calm contempt, left their case entirely with the judge.

People stared and wondered.

The judge examined the book, and read from it: "May 9, 1866, married Kusmin Gavrilovitch Petroff and Daria Kirilovna Solovieff, strangers."

A chill ran round the court.

The judge asked the defendant's counsel in whose handwriting this entry was.

"In the same as the rest apparently."

"And who wrote the rest?"

"We do not know for certain."

"Well, I must know before I admit it against sworn witnesses."

He retired to take some refreshment, and on his return they had witnesses to swear that the entry in question and the notices that preceded it, and thirty-five per cent that followed it, were all in the handwriting of the last deacon.

"Where is he?" asked the judge.

"He was promoted some time ago to a church on the confines of Siberia."

Then the judge expressed dissatisfaction at his not being there, and thereupon each counsel blamed the other. The plaintiff's counsel believed he had been spirited away. The defendant's counsel said that was an unworthy suspicion; the law relied on the book, not on the writer; he in many cases must be absent, since in many he was dead. It was for the other party, who had the book against them, to call the writer if they dared; and being plaintiff, they could have postponed the case until they had found him.

In this argument the barrister from the capital gained an advantage over the local advocate, and the judge nodded assent.

This concluded the trial, and the judge delivered the verdict and his reasons in a very few words.

"This is a strange case," said he, "a mysterious case. There is a conflict of evidence, all open to objection. The direct evidence for the plaintiff is respectable, but interested; the evidence for the defendant is a book, and cannot be cross-examined. But then that book is the special evidence appointed by law to decide these cases. It can only be impugned by evidence of forgery or addition, mutilation or adulteration of some kind or other. It is not so impugned in this case; therefore, it binds me. The verdict is for the defendant, the marriage of the plaintiff to Alexis Pavlovitch Staropolsky being not proved according to law, and indeed rather disproved."

Daria's father went home furious at the defeat and the loss of money. Daria shed some patient tears, but bore the disappointment and the wrong with fortitude.

As the defeated ones drove out of the town in their humble vehicle they were stopped by an old friend--Ivan Ulitch. The meeting made them both uneasy. They had dismissed him so curtly, and what had they gained? The farmer even expected an affront, or ironical sympathy. But Ivan was not of that sort. He was "humble fidelity" in person. Affectionate, not passionate, he had obeyed his beautiful friend, and left her in prosperity, but in her adversity he returned to her directly.

"Daria, my soul," said he, "do not be discouraged by this defeat. It is a fraud of some sort. Give me time; I shall unravel it. I live here now, and shall soon be a clerk no more, but a lawyer to defend your rights."

"Good Ivan--kind, faithful Ivan!" said Daria, through her tears. "What, are you still my friend?"

"More than ever, dear soul, now I see you wronged. Do not lose heart. This defeat is nothing. Your lawyer was weak; the other side were strong and unscrupulous, and have fought with gold and fraud. That is self-evident, though the fraud itself is obscure. No matter; I will work like a mole for you, and unravel the knavery."

Daria interrupted him. "No, Ivan Ulitch; that you esteem me still is a drop of comfort, welcome as water to the thirsty. But no more law for me."

And so they parted.

Ivan, though he seemed to acquiesce, was not to be discouraged. For months and years he patiently groped beneath the surface of this case, yet never mentioned the case itself. He watched for the return of smuggled away witnesses; he listened in cafés and cabarets; he courted the priest and the deacon; he was artful, silent, patient, penetrating. Love by degrees made him as dangerous as greed had made Vladimir Alexéitch.

Meantime that victorious villain hurried away to his headquarters, and told Anna Petrovna there had been no difficulty after all. The very register of the place had shown that the person Daria was really married to was a serf.

"I do not doubt it," said Anna Petrovna; "but I cannot rejoice with you. Would to God my son had married her, and not died with that crime on his soul!"

Vladimir shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. As for Anna Petrovna, she never recurred to the subject; and indeed she hated the very name of Daria Solovieff. She was obliged to hear it now and then; but she never uttered it of her own accord.

Daria became the mother of a beautiful boy, and the joys of maternity reconciled her to life. Youth and health and maternal joy fought against grief, and in time gave her back all her beauty, with a pensive tenderness that elevated it. Her position was painful; but the country people stood by her. The women instinctively sided with her, and laid all the blame on the pride of the nobles.

She called her boy Alexis, and he was as dark as she was fair. She had him well educated from his very infancy, and let everybody know that they must treat him like a noble, but herself like a peasant. She never went near Smirnovo, nor did Anna Petrovna ever come her way. Yet they often thought of each other, and each wondered how she could have so mistaken the other's character. Their friends did not fail to keep the mutual repulsion alive, the impassable gulf open.

Ivan visited the cottage from time to time, and was always welcome. One year after the birth of Alexis, he offered marriage to Daria. She thanked him for his fidelity, but calmly declined. This restricted him to one topic; and, to do him justice, the enduring fellow did not cool in it one bit merely because Daria would not marry him. He remained just as full of the law case and Plutitzin's knavery, to whose influence he had pretty well traced the false entry in the register, and the disappearance of the deacon, lost in that boundless empire, and separated from clerical functions, otherwise Ivan would have discovered him by his agents.

But Ivan's only eager listener was the old peasant. Daria had lost faith in human tribunals, and had no personal desire for wealth. With her the heart predominated over the pocket. Her great grief now was her alienation from the mother of Alexis, her old benefactress. She often said that if any one would only confine her in one prison with Anna Petrovna, she would regain her confidence and her love. But her old patroness was physically inaccessible to her--at the capital nine months in the year, and shut up the rest; dragons at every door, under the chief dragon Vladimir, who seldom went near his office, but just cannily bribed everybody who objected to his frequent absences.

So rolled the years away, till one day Ivan Ulitch, now a keen lawyer in good practice, came to the cottage, "bearded like the pard," and somewhat changed in manner, more authoritative.

"The time is come," said he; "the plum is ripe."

Daria rose quietly and was about to retire, but Ivan requested her to stay.

She said it was not necessary; her father would tell her; besides, Alexis was calling for her.

"Then let him come to you," said Ivan, firmly. "It is for him I have been working, as well as for you. I think I have a right to look at him."

"Oh, yes," said Daria, coloring up, and brought the boy in, and with her native politeness said to him, "Alosha, this is a good friend to you and me; shake hands with him."

Alexis shook hands directly.

"And now sit quiet, my dove."

Her dove sat quiet, and opened two glorious eyes on Ivan Ulitch.

"Daria Kirilovna," said Ivan, "if you submit to that knave Plutitzin, you let him rob this boy out of his right. The moment your marriage is established, he is the owner of Staropolsk and the heir of Anna Petrovna. Now do you love the son of Alexis Pavlovitch--great Heaven! how like he is to his father!--do you love him like a child or like a woman?"

The poor thing held out her arms to Alexis with an inarticulate cry, the sacred music of a mother's heart. Alexis ran to her. She was all over him in a moment, and nestled his head in her bosom, and rocked a little with him. "Do I love my heart and soul? Do I love my pigeon of pigeons?"

"I love you, mammy," suggested Alexis.

"Ay, my heart of hearts; but not as your mammy loves you. How could you?"

The men said nothing, but their eyes were moist, and, Ivan felt ashamed he had said anything that could be construed into a doubt. He began to stammer excuses.

"Nay, nay," said Daria. "I know what you meant, and I deserve it. The love of my precious has been all I needed. I ought to look forward to the days when he will be a man, and perhaps ask why I neglected his interests, and his good name as well as mine. My faithful friend, if you are to be our lawyer, I will try once more--for my Alexis. I will face that dreadful court again for my Alexis."

"Victory! " cried Ivan Ulitch, starting up and waving his cap.

Alexis approved this behavior highly. It was so new in that staid house. "Victory!" he cried, and caught up his pork-pie to wave it, but was cut short, and nearly smothered with kisses.

"Here is a change of wind," said the old man, dryly; "but excuse me, son Ivan, it is not victory yet. These young women they hang back and pull against you, and then all in a moment start off full gallop, and neat-leather reins won't hold them. But I must have my word too. The last trial cost me all my savings in one day. Will this cost as much?"

"The double."

"And am I to pay it?"

"You will not pay one solkov. I shall pay it, and this boy's inheritance will repay it with interest."

"Good! On these terms law is a luxury."

"Not to me, if my best friend is to risk his money for us," said Daria.

"That is my business," retorted Ivan Ulitch, curtly.

Daria apologized with feigned humility, but made an appeal. "Now, father--"

"Why, girl," said he, "the longer we live, the more we learn. He is not the calf he was when he first got tethered to your petticoats. He is a ripe lawyer now, by all accounts, and as sharp as a vixen with seven cubs. For all that, Mr. Lawyer, I should like to know whether that register book will come against us."

"Of course it will; it is the pillar of the defense."

"Then it will beat us again."

"I think not."

"Then how--"

Ivan interrupted him. "Kyril Kyrilovitch; you said right; 'the longer we live, the more we learn.' Well, I have lived long enough to learn that in ticklish cases it is best to tell nobody what cards we mean to play. The very birds of the air carry our words to the other side. I will say no more than this. I have spies in the very home of Anna Petrovna. At present she knows neither me nor Plutitzin. She shall know us both, and it is not my witnesses that the enemy's gold shall put out of the way during the trial. It is I who will bottle the wine, and keep it in cellar for use. All I require of you is not to breathe to a soul that we even intend to appeal against that judgment. If you breathe a syllable, you will cut your own throats and mine."

Before he left he recurred to this, and once more exacted a solemn promise of secrecy. This done, he cut his visit short and went home.

It would be out of place and unnecessary to follow Ivan Ulitch Koscko in all his acts. Suffice it to say that he now began to gather certain fruits he had been years maturing. But one of the things he did was, to the best of my belief, new in the history of mankind. In the first place it was a piece of knavery done by an honest man. That is unusual, but far from unique. But then it was done for no personal gain, and mainly out of love of justice, and justice had little chance of success without the help of this injustice. To this singular situation add the act itself and its unique details, and I think you will come to my opinion that, old as the world is, this precise thing was never done upon its surface before that day.

Well, then, Ivan Ulitch and the new deacon were bosom friends, and that friendship had been planted years ago, and sunned and watered and grown and ripened for this one day's work.

The deacon went a day's journey, leaving Ivan some ecclesiastical deeds to decipher and comment on in his house. Ivan breakfasted with him, and after his departure showed the deacon's housekeeper the work he had before him, and said: "Now, Tania, mind I am not here. I can't do such work as this if I am interrupted. Do not come near me till three o'clock, nor let any one else."

Tatiana, with whom he was a special favorite, promised faithfully, and proved a very dragon.

Ivan took out of his lawyer's bag a corkscrew, various vials containing inks and chemicals, paper, numberless pens, and other things not worth enumerating, and out of his pockets magnifiers set in spectacles, and things like surgeon's instruments.

He went to a little book-shelf, took out a book, and found a key; with this key he opened an old oak chest, clamped with iron, and found a book with vellum leaves and a parchment cover brownish with age. It was the register. This book was made near a century ago by a priest who was an enthusiast. Common as skins are in Russia, this use of vellum was very rare.

He read several pages. He put on magnifiers, and examined the fatal entry; then, without removing his magnifiers, he proceeded with his surgical instruments to efface the name of Kusmin Gavrilovitch Petroff. In this work he proceeded with singular gentleness and slowness. He was full two hours effacing that one name. Then he heated an iron the size of a walnut, and, after trying it on other parts of the book, ironed down his work so that it was no longer visible to the naked eye, but only to a strong magnifier.

Then with various inks and various pens he set to work to imitate on paper the handwriting of the late deacon and the words Kusmin Gavrilovitch Petroff, for which he had previously searched when he read the other pages, and found an example readily, for it was a common name.

When he had mastered the imitation, he took a hand magnifier and wrote Kusmin Gavrilovitch Petroff over the place of the old signature. Then he put the book in the sun and let his work dry. It dried a trifle paler than the rest of the book, but with a crow-quill he added the requisite color here and there.

The work was hardly finished when a heavy knock at the door made him start and tremble.

"WHAT is it?"

"Five o'clock," replied the voice of Tatiana.

And he thought it was about one.

He begged for half an hour more, and began to tie up the old papers with fingers that trembled now for the first time.

He put away the register, locked the chest, put the key in its hiding-place, unbolted the door, and asked Tatiana for a glass of brandy.

She brought it him directly, and said he needed it.

"No matter," said he; "the work is done." He drank Tatiana's health, and went away gayly.

Tatiana went into the room, and found the pile of old papers all neatly done up and tied. "Musty old things!" said she. " 'Tis a shame a comely young man like that must bury his nose in such old-world muck. Smells like the grave; no wonder he got pale over them, the nasty trash."

Soon after this Ivan appeared at the cottage with affidavits to be signed by Daria Kyril, and others, and in due course moved for a new trial upon numberless depositions alleging fraud, suppression of evidence, inefficient inquiry, recent discoveries, non-existence of an imaginary husband palmed upon the court, etc.

The notice of motion was served on Anna Petrovna and Vladimir Alexéitch. Anna Petrovna declined to move hand or foot. Vladimir opposed by powerful counsel, but the court could not burke an inquiry supported by such a mass of affidavits.

Vladimir, however, was very successful in another branch of policy. Even as Fabius wore out Annibal, he baffled the plaintiff, "ad cunctando restituit rem."

First, Anna Petrovna, whom he had the effrontery to call his leading witness, though he knew "oxen and twain ropes would not drag her" into court.

Then at the end of three months he was ill himself.

Then, just as the trial was coming on, he could not find the late deacon. He had suddenly disappeared from Russia, and was said to be in Constantinople.

And so he sickened the adversaries' hearts, and they began to fear the new trial would not come on in their lifetime, if at all.

It was actually delayed eighteen months by these acts. But Ivan was not idle. He got the local press to insert timid hints of a most important trial unreasonably delayed. He even got a hint conveyed to the president that the right of postponement was being extended to a defeat of justice, and at last a sturdy judge said: "No. At the last trial you relied mainly on an evidence that is easy of access. It is a sufficient defense, and you disclose no other. The cause ought to be tried during the lifetime of all the parties interested."

Then he appointed a day.

The trial came on, with great expectation, in the leading court of Petersburg.

This time there were three judges.

To avoid weariness, I shall confine myself to such features of this trial as were new.

At the first trial Daria was dressed like a lady, and was interesting by her pale beauty and manifest pregnancy.

At this trial she was more beautiful, but dressed like a superior peasant, and her lovely boy like a noble, in rich silk tunic, boots, and cap with feather. So with a woman's subtlety did she convey that she came there for her son's rights, not her own.

The court was full of ladies, and they all found means to telegraph their sympathy, and keep up her fainting heart as she sat there with her boy's hand in hers.

As to the evidence, the depositions of the old witnesses were taken down by the local court, and merely read at Petersburg. To these were now added certain facts, also proved on the spot, one being the adoption by Anna Petrovna of their client. They proved by many female witnesses her virtue from her youth, and that she was not the woman to live paramour with any man.

They were more particular as to the banns, and proved by oral testimony of several persons that not Kusmin Petroff, but Alexis Staropolsky, was cried in church with Daria Solovieff.

They then tried to prove a negative, that nobody had seen Petroff, but one of the judges stopped them. Said he, "It does not lie on you to produce Petroff. The other side will do that."

"We doubt it," said the advocate.

"Then all the better for you," said the judge.

From Daria herself they elicited that no man called Petroff had ever written or spoken to her either before or after her marriage, and that ten minutes after the wedding she and Alexis had met Vladimir Alexéitch, the real defendant, just outside the town, and her husband and he had exchanged looks of defiance.

They proved by another witness the arrival of Vladimir in the town about half an hour after the wedding, and that he was seen to go into the church at once, and come out with the deacon.

Vladimir, there present, began to perspire at every pore.

When the defendant's turn came, his counsel told the court all this had been put forward at the last trial, and had been met triumphantly by an obvious solution, viz., that the late Alexis Staropolsky had loved a beautiful woman, who had never deviated from the paths of virtue before, and was only persuaded under cover of a marriage ceremony. At that point, however, the young noble had protected himself against a mésalliance, and substituted a convenient husband, who was to disappear, and did disappear; but the good simple deacon had recorded all he saw or divined--the real marriage.

"A real marriage without banns," suggested one of the judges.

"So it appears," said counsel, indifferently. "I am not here to bind the plaintiff to Petroff, but to detach her from Staropolsky. The register is here. The plaintiff married Petroff or nobody. The proof is technical, and it is the proof the law demands. This court does not sit to make the law, nor to break the law, but to find the law."

"That is so," said the president. "Let me see the book."

The book was handed up. The judges examined it, and all looked grave.

Counsel proceeded to prove the handwriting, as before, by secondary evidence.

One of the judges objected. "This writing is opposed to such a weight of oral testimony that we shall expect to see the writer of it."

Counsel informed the court that they had hunted Russia for him, but could not find him. "For years after this business he lived near Viatka, but now we have lost sight of him. Had the plaintiff appealed in a reasonable time, we should have had the benefit of his personal evidence."

"There is something in that," said the judge. Another remarked that entries in the same handwriting preceded and followed the entry in question. A third judge found another Petroff exactly like the writing of the fatal Petroff, and so, after a snarl or two, they excused the absence of the old deacon.

Vladimir's counsel whispered him, "You are lucky; the case is won."

The judges retired to take some refreshment and agree upon their judgment.

They left the register behind them. Ivan got it from the clerk and examined it carefully. The other side looked on sneeringly.

Ivan moved his finger over the entry, and whispered, "It feels rough here."

"Indeed," said his counsel. "Yes, I think it does. Don't say anything; get me a magnifier."

Ivan went out, and soon found a magnifier, having brought three with him into court for this little comedy. Counsel applied it.

"The vellum appears to be scraped in places," said he. "Now let me see. We will flatter the president." Just then the judges entered, and this foxy counsel said, respectfully, "We have found something rather curious in this entry; but my eyes are not so good as your excellency's. Would you object to examine it with a magnifier?"

The judge nodded assent. The book and magnifier were handed up to him. He examined them carefully, and said that he thought some name had been erased and another written over it.

At that there was an excited murmur.

"But," said he, "we must take evidence, for this is a serious matter. You must call experts. And you, please call experts on your side, for they seldom agree."

The trial was postponed an hour, and the court seemed invaded with bees.

Ivan got experts, and sat quaking and wondering how much experts really knew. "We suspect erasure," said he, to guide them.

In the box those two saw erasure of some word previous to the writing of Petroff. But they could not say what word it was. Did not think it was Petroff.

The other two saw erasures, or else scraping, but thought it was rather the light scraping of vellum that is sometimes done to get rid of the grease, etc., and make a better signature. But agreed with the others that the words were written over the scraping.

One of the plaintiff's experts was recalled and asked his opinion of that evidence.

Said he, "I was surprised at it, because in preparing parchment for writing nobody scrapes in the form of the coming signature; one scrapes a straight strip."

Here the judge interposed his good sense. "Look through the book," said he, "and tell me in how many places the vellum has been scraped before writing."

He looked and could not find one but this entry.

They battled over it to and fro, and at last one of the experts swore that Daria's name, and Petroff's were not written with exactly the same ink; more gum in the latter.

After a long battle of experts the judges compared notes, and the president delivered judgment.

"This is the case of Substance v. Shadow. Here is a weight of evidence to prove that the plaintiff is a virtuous woman, adopted for her superior qualities by the mother of the deceased, and that mother, described before the trial as a leading witness, does not appear to contradict her on oath. The plaintiff and Alexis Staropolsky are traced to Samara, seen there as lovers by many; their banns are called, and they are accompanied to church by living witnesses. They go from the church door and meet the defendant, who dares not enter the witness-box and deny this. They cohabit, and a son is born, but the husband dies. This calamity is taken advantage of to defeat the right with shadows. The first shadow is Kusmin Gavrilovitch Petroff; he is never seen to enter the church door or leave it. If he was present at the ceremony, he came in at the window, departed out of the window, and vanished into space. But more probably he is a nom de plume. A certain deacon erased some other name, and then wrote over the vacancy this nom de plume, and then made himself a shadow. We need not go into conjectures as to what name was originally written in that registry. That might be necessary under other circumstances, but here there is a chain of evidence of living witnesses to prove the marriage of Dana Kirilovna Solovieff and Alexis Pavlovitch Staropolsky. It is encountered by no man and no thing, but a mutilated book recording a nom de plume upon an erasure. The judgment must be for the plaintiff. The marriage was legal, and her son is legitimate. Their material rights will no doubt be protected in another court upon due application."

The people rose, the ladies waved their handkerchiefs to Daria and her beautiful boy, and he actually kissed his hand to them with the instinct of his race.

Out of court there was a joyful meeting, and Daria actually took Ivan by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. But she was away again so quick that the enraptured but modest lover never kissed her in return, he was so taken by surprise. However, he remembered the gentle onslaught with rapture. He sent her home with certain instructions. He remained to do her business. The case was reported, and he sent six copies of journals to the house of Anna Petrovna. One of the two copies sent to herself was in a light parcel surrounded by lace, for he felt sure Vladimir had taken measures to intercept information of any kind.

He then moved the Orphan Court to attach the separate estate of Alexis, deceased, give the widow her third, and put the rest in trust for Alexis junior.

The other party, however, asked a brief delay to argue this, and meantime gave notice of appeal to the Senate on the question of marriage and legitimacy.

Vladimir wrote to Anna Petrovna, bidding her be under no anxiety as to the final result. They should accuse the other side of tampering with the register.

However, when this letter reached her, Anna Petrovna was another woman. The journals directed to her house were intercepted, but the parcel of lace reached her, and inside it was the report, and this line:

"Sent in this form because important communications to you have been constantly intercepted since you put yourself in the power of your son's worst enemy."

"Can this be so?" said Madame Staropolsky. "No, it is a calumny. I will not read this paper." She tossed it from her.

On second thoughts she would read it, out of curiosity, just to see by what arts these people had deceived the judges.

She read the report word for word, read it with carefully nursed prejudice fighting against native justice and good sense, and a sort of chill came over her. She had resigned her intelligence to Vladimir for seven years. Now she began to resume it.

"Oh, foolish woman," she said, "to go on year after year hearing but one side in such a case as this! Virtuous! Yes, she was: and he impetuous and willful. How often have these two things led to a mésalliance?"

She went over all the points of the judgment, and could not gainsay them.

She sat all day and brooded over the past, and digested the matter, and was sore perplexed. Next day, while she was brooding, the old nurse of the family, whom Vladimir had been unable to corrupt, put into her hands a note.

"From whom?" she asked.

"From one who loves you, my heart's soul."

"Ah! What, has she bewitched thee?" She opened the note with compressed lips, but hands that trembled a little.

"ANNA PETROVNA--How can we deceive you? You have eyes and ears, and more wisdom than the judges; pray, pray let us come to your feet for judgment. I will abandon all my rights if you look us in the face and bid me.

DARIA."

"The witch!" said Madame Petrovna, trembling a little. "She thinks I cannot resist her voice. And can I? Ay, nurse, she will abandon her rights, but not her son's."

"Can you blame her, my heart?"

"No," said the lady, with a blunt honesty all her own.

Then she sat down and wrote, with her most austere face: "Come, if you have the courage to meet the mother of Alexis."

She sent the nurse off with this in a fast troika; and when the nurse was gone, she regretted it. Daria was a woman now, and a mother defending her child. What chance would the truth have if she resisted it with that voice of hers and all a mother's art?

Then again she thought: "No, I have my eyes as well as my ears, and I am a mother too. She cannot deceive me."

Some hours passed, and the carriage did not return.

Then she said: "I thought not. It was bravado. She is afraid to come."

Then she began to be sorry Daria was afraid to come.

Meantime Daria was dressing the boy in a suit she had bought in St. Petersburg expressly for this long-meditated, longed-for, and dreaded interview. The suit was the very richest purple silk--cap, tunic, and trousers tucked into Wellington boots; in the cap a short peacock's feather. This was all the motherly art she practiced. She prepared no tale nor bewitching accents, and she trembled at what she was going to do.

Anna Petrovna, finding she did not come, rang and inquired whether the nurse had come back.

"No."

"Has the carriage returned?"

"No."

Another hour of doubt, and wheels were heard.

Anna Petrovna seated herself in state, and steeled herself.

The door opened softly, and two figures came toward her down the vast apartment. It was the young Alexis and his mother. I put him first because his mother did so. She kept him a little before her to bear the brunt; with a white hand on his shoulder, she advanced him, and half followed, like a bending lily, with sweet obsequious Oriental grace.

As they advanced Anna Petrovna rose rather haughtily at first; but no sooner were they near her than she uttered a cry so loud, so passionate, though devoid of terror, that it pierced and thrilled all hearts without alarming them.

"My boy, my child, come back from the dead--where--how? Am I mad--am I dreaming? No, it's my child, my beautiful child! He is seven years old--the painter has just left. Jesu! this is Thy doing. Thou hast had pity on another bereaved mother."

Her age left her. She was down on her knees before the boy in a moment, and held him tight, and put back his hair, and gazed into his eyes, and devoured him with kisses. "Lawyers, witnesses, judges, mortal men, this is beyond your power. Nature speaks. God gives me back my darling from the dead. Bless you for giving me back my own--my own, own, own. To my arms, my children." Then all three were locked in one embrace, and the tears fell like rain. Blessed, balmy dew of loving hearts too long estranged!

THERE are scenes that cannot be prolonged on paper. It would chill them. I shall only say that long after the first wild emotion had subsided Anna Petrovna and her new-found daughter could not part even for a moment, but must sit with clasped hands looking at their child, to whom liberty was conceded in virtue of his sex, and he roamed the apartments inquisitive, followed by four eyes.

Another carriage was sent to the cottage for clothes. Daria and her boy were kept for--ever; and, to close the salient incidents of the day, Anna Petrovna hurried off a letter to Vladimir, peremptorily forbidding him to appeal against the decision, and promising him, on that condition, a liberal allowance during his lifetime out of the personal estate of the writer, for she had saved a large sum on the estate.

Two days later came Ivan Ulitch, who had been at the cottage and learned the reconciliation. The object of his visit was to secure his beloved Daria from molestation from Vladimir Alexéitch, who, he felt sure, would return very soon. He brought with him a hangdog-looking fellow, who had been a servant in the great house, and expelled. Ivan sought an interview. Daria's influence secured it to him directly. He came into the room with this fellow crouching behind him.

Anna Petrovna, with her quick eye, recognized both Ivan and the man directly.

"I am pleased," said she, "to receive a faithful friend of my dear daughter, and sorry to see him in bad company."

"Madame," said Ivan, "do not regard him as anything but a minister of justice. A greater villain than he ever was intercepted two letters that even a fiend might have spared. This poor knave found them afterward in Vladimir's pocket, read them, and copied their contents, and placed his copies in the envelopes. Pray God for fortitude, dear lady, to read these letters, and know your enemies, since now you know your friends."

As he spoke he held out two letters. Anna Petrovna took them slowly. She opened one of them with a piteous cry. It was from Alexis, announcing his marriage, but protesting love and duty, and asking pardon in tender and most respectful terms. "Our lives," said he, "shall be given to reconcile you to my happiness."

While she read her face was so awful and so pitiful that by tacit consent they all retired from the room, and left her to see how she had been abused. When they came back they found her on her knees. She had been weeping bitterly to think that her son had died unforgiven because she had been deceived by a reptile.

As she suffered deeply, so she acted earnestly.

She called all her servants, and gave them a stern order.

She dismissed the steward on the spot for complicity with Vladimir, and she offered Ivan the place, with rooms in the house. He embraced the offer at once, to be near Daria.

Daria and she were rocking together, and Daria's sweet voice was comforting her with a long prospect of love and peace, when grinding wheels and barking curs announced the return of Vladimir.

Ivan left the room hastily, saying, "Leave him to me."

For the first time in the memory of man the great door of that house did not open to a visitor. Vladimir had to knock. The hall re-echoed with the heavy hammer.

Then the door opened slowly, and displayed a phalanx of servants planted there grimly, not to receive but to obstruct.

They forbade him, by order of Anna Petrovna, to enter, and were as insolent as they had been obsequious.

He threatened violence. They prepared to retort to it. When he saw that, the Asiatic re-appeared in him. "May I ask for a reason?" said he, very civilly.

Ivan stepped forward. "Sir," said he, " a dishonest servant took two letters you intercepted. They were written at Petersburg after the marriage. He substituted copies, and the bereaved mother is weeping over the originals."

"Ah!" said Vladimir, and was silent. He literally fled. His face was never seen again in that part of Russia. Yet he had the hardihood to claim the promise of a pension, and that high-minded woman, who could not break a promise, flung it him yearly through her steward, Ivan Ulitch.

Balmy peace and love descended now on the house, and abode there. Alexis and Ivan grew older, but Anna Petrovna younger. Her daughter's voice and her daughter's love were ever-flowing fountains of gentle joy; still, like Naomi of old, her bliss was in her boy. His father and he seemed blended in her heart, and that heart grew green again.

Ivan is calmly happy in the present and in the certainty that Daria will never marry any man but him, and in the hope that one day Anna Petrovna will let him marry her. At present he is afraid to ask her for the mother of Alexis. But Alexis is paving the way by calling him "my father." It rests with Anna Petrovna; for if she says the word, Daria will marry Ivan merely to please a good friend, and afterward be surprised to find how happy he can make her.

He has never revealed, and never will, that masterstroke of fraud with which he baffled fraud and perpetuated right by wrong.

He is right not to boast of it, and I hope I may not be doing ill to record it. The expression so many French writers delight in, "a pious fraud," is the most Satanic phrase I know.

I did not invent the maneuver which is the point of this tale, and I pray Heaven no man may imitate it.

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