as Panshin to do with it? Do thou tell me,
rather, who taught thee to appoint rendezvous by night--hey? my mother?"

Liza turned pale.

"Please do not think of excusing thyself,"--continued Marfa
Timofeevna.--"Schurotchka herself saw all, and told me. I have
forbidden her to chatter, but she does not lie."

"I have made no excuses, aunty,"--said Liza, in a barely audible voice.

"Ah, ah! Now, see here, my mother; didst thou appoint a meeting with him,
with that old sinner, that quiet man?"

"No."

"Then how did it come about?"

"I went down-stairs, to the drawing-room, for a book; he was in the
garden, and called me."

"And thou wentest? Very fine. And thou lovest him, dost thou not?"

"I do,"--replied Liza, in a tranquil voice.

"Gracious heavens! she loves him!"--Marfa Timofeevna tore off her
cap.--"She loves a married man! Hey? she loves!"

"He told me,"--began Liza....

"What did he tell thee, the darling, wha-at was it?"

"He told me that his wife was dead."

Marfa Timofeevna crossed herself.--"The kingdom of heaven be
hers,"--she whispered:--"she was a frivolous woman--God forgive her. So
that's how it is: then he's a widower. Yes, I see that he is equal to
anything. He killed off his first wife, and now he's after another. Thou
art a sly one, art thou not? Only, this is what I have to say to thee,
niece: in my time, when I was young, girls were severely punished for
such capers. Thou must not be angry with me, my mother; only fools get
angry at the truth. I have given orders that he is not to be admitted
to-day. I am fond of him, but I shall never forgive him for this. A
widower, forsooth! Give me some water.... But thou art my brave girl, for
sending Panshin off with a long face; only, do not sit out nights with
that goat's breed,--with men,--do not grieve me, an old woman! For I am
not always amiable--I know how to bite, also!... A widower!"

Marfa Timofeevna departed, but Liza sat down in the corner and began to
cry. She felt bitter in soul; she had not deserved such humiliation. Her
love had not announced its presence by cheerfulness; this was the second
time she had wept since the night before. That new, unexpected feeling
had barely come to life in her heart when she had had to pay so heavily
for it, when strange hands had roughly touched her private secret! She
felt ashamed, and pained, and bitter: but there was neither doubt nor
terror in her,--and Lavretzky became all the dearer to her.