"None whatever, madam," answered the Count, spreading out the coins which had been collected by loving hands from so many sources. "The only question is, to ascertain whether there are fifty marks here or not."

Fischelowitz stood looking on. He had not yet recovered from his surprise, and was half afraid that there might be something wrong. But the practical Akulina lost no time in a.s.suring herself that the sum was complete. As she realised this fact, her features relaxed into a pleasant smile.

"Well, Count," she said, "we are very much obliged to you for this. It is very honest of you, for of course, you were not exactly called upon--"

"I understood you to say that I was," replied the Count, gravely.

"Oh, that was yesterday, and I am very sorry if I annoyed you. But let bygones be bygones! I hope there is no ill-will between us?"

"Oh, none at all," returned the other indifferently. "I have the honour to wish you a very good evening." Without waiting for more, the Count bowed and left the shop.

"Akulina," said Fischelowitz, thoughtfully, as the door closed, "that man is a gentleman, say what you please."

"A pretty gentleman," laughed Akulina, putting the money into the till. "A gentleman indeed--why, look at his coat!"

"And you are a fool, Akulina," added Fischelowitz, handling his india-rubber stamp.

"Thank you; but for my foolery you would be fifty marks poorer to-night, Christian Gregorovitch. A gentleman, pah!"

The Count had drawn Vjera's willing arm through his, and they were walking slowly away together.

"I must be going home," she said, reluctantly. "The little sister will be crying for me. I cannot leave her any longer."

"Not till I have thanked you, dear," he answered, pressing her arm to his side. "But I will go with you to your door, and thank you all the way--though the way is far too short for all I have to say."

"I have done nothing--it has really cost me nothing." Vjera squeezed her limp parcel under her shawl, and felt that she was speaking the truth.

"I cannot believe that, Vjera," said the Count. "You could not have found so much money so quickly, without making some great sacrifice. But I will give it back to you--"

"Oh no--no," she cried, earnestly. "Make no promises to me. Think what this promise has cost you. When you have the money, you may give it back if you choose--but it would make me so unhappy if you promised."

"Would it, child? And yet, my friends are waiting for me, and they have money for me, too. Then, I will only say that I will give it back to you as soon as possible. Is that right?"

"Yes--and nothing more than that. And as for thanking me--what have I done that needs thanks? Would you not have done as much for me if--if, for instance, I had been ill, and could not pay the rent of the room? And then--think of the happiness I have had!"

The words were spoken so simply and it was so clear that they were true, that the Count found it hard to answer. Not because he had nothing to express, but because the words for the expression could not be found.

Again he pressed her arm.

"Vjera," he said, when they had walked some distance farther, "it is of no use to speak of this. There is that between you and me which makes speech contemptible and words ridiculous. There is only one thing that I can do, Vjera dearest. I can love you, dear, with all my heart. Will you take my love for thanks--and my devotion for grat.i.tude? Will you, dear? Will you remember what you promised and what I promised last night? As soon as all is right, to-morrow, will you be my wife?"

"If it could ever be!" sighed the poor girl, recalled suddenly to the remembrance of his pitiful infirmity.

"It can be, it shall be and it will be," he answered in tones of conviction. "They are waiting for me now, Vjera, in my little room--but they may wait, for I will not lose a moment of your dear company for them all. They are waiting for me with the money and the papers and the orders.

I have waited long for them, they can afford to have a little patience now. And to-morrow, at this time, we shall be together, Vjera, in the train--I will have a special carriage for you and me, and then, a night and a day and another night and we shall be at home--for ever. How happy we shall be! Will you not be happy with me, darling? Why do you sigh?"

"Did I sigh?" asked Vjera, trying to laugh a little.

He hardly noticed the question, but began to talk again, as he had talked on the previous evening, describing all that he meant to do, and all that they would do together. Vjera heard and tried not to listen. Her joy was all gone. The great, overwhelming pleasure she had felt in dispelling his anxiety and in averting what had seemed a near and terrible catastrophe, gave place to the old, heartrending pity for him, as he rambled on in his delusion. She had hoped that, as it was late on Wednesday evening, the time of it was pa.s.sed and that, for another week, he would talk no more of his friends and his money and his return to fortune. But the fixed idea was there still, as dominant as ever. Her light tread grew weary and her head sank forward as she walked. For one short hour she had felt the glory of sacrificing all she had to give, to her love. Are there many who have felt as much, with as good reason, in a whole lifetime?

But the hour was gone, taking with it the reality and leaving in its place a memory, fair, brilliant, and dear as the tress of golden hair Vjera was carrying home in her parcel, but as useless perhaps and as valueless in the world of realities as that had proved to be.

They reached her door and stopped in their walk. She looked up sadly into his eyes, as she held out her hand. He hesitated a moment, and then threw both his arms round her and drew her to his heart and kissed her pa.s.sionately again and again. She tried to draw back.

"Oh no, no!" she cried. "It cannot be so to-morrow--why should you kiss me to-day?" But he would not let her go. She loved him, though she knew he was mad, and she let her head fall upon his shoulder, and allowed herself to believe in love for a moment.

Suddenly she felt that he was startled by something.

"Vjera!" he cried. "Have you cut off your beautiful hair? What have you done, child? How could you do it?"

"It was so heavy," she said, looking up with a bright smile. "It made my head ache--it is best so."

But he was not satisfied, for he guessed something of the truth, and the pain and horror that thrilled him told him that he had guessed rightly.

"You have cut it off--and you have sold it--you have sold your hair for me--" he stammered in a broken voice.

She hung her head a little.

"I always meant to cut it off. I did not care for it, you know. And besides," she added, suddenly looking up again, "you will not love me less, will you? They said it would grow again--you will not love me less?"

"Love you less? Ah, Vjera, that promise I may make at least--never--to the end of ends!"

"And yet," she answered, "if it should all be true--if it only should--you could not--oh, I should not be worthy of you--you could never marry me."

The Count drew back a step and held out his right hand, with a strangely earnest look in his weary eyes. She laid her fingers in his almost unconsciously. Then, as though he were in a holy place, he took off his hat, and stood bareheaded before her.

"If I forsake you, Vjera," he said very solemnly, "if I forsake you ever, in riches or in poverty, in honour or in disrepute, may the G.o.d of heaven forsake me in the hour of my death."

He swore the great oath deliberately, in a strong, clear voice, and then was silent for a moment, his eyes turned upwards, his att.i.tude unchanged.

Then he raised the poor girl's thin hand to his lips and kissed it, three times, reverently, as devout persons kiss the relics of departed saints.

"Good-night, Vjera," he said, quietly. "We shall meet to-morrow."

Vjera was awed by his solemn earnestness, and strongly moved by his action.

"Good-night," she answered, lovingly. "Heaven bless you and keep you safe." She looked for a last time into his face, as though trying to impress upon her mind the memories of that fateful evening, and then she withdrew into the house, shutting the street door behind her.

The Count stood still for several minutes, unconsciously holding his hat in his hand. At last he covered his head and walked slowly away in the direction of his home. By degrees his mind fell into its old groove and he hastened his steps. From time to time, he fancied that some one was following him at no great distance, but though he glanced quickly over his shoulder he saw no one in the dimly-lighted street. The door of the house in which he lived was open, and he ran up the stairs at a great pace, sure that by this time his friends must be waiting for him in his room. When he reached it, all was dark and quiet. The echo of his own footsteps seemed still to resound in the staircase as he closed his door and struck a match. He found his small lamp in a corner, lighted it with some difficulty, set it on the table and sat down. There, beside him, propped up against two books, was the piece of paper on which he had written the few words for his friends, in case they came while he was out. He took it up, looked over it absently and began to fold it upon itself again and again.

"Dear Vjera!" he exclaimed, in a low caressing tone, as he smoothed the folded strip between his fingers.

He was thinking, and thinking connectedly, of all that had just taken place, and wondering how it was that he had been able to accept such a sacrifice from one so little able to sacrifice anything. It seemed as though it should have been impossible for him to let the poor little sh.e.l.l-maker take upon herself his burden, and free him of it and set him right again in his own eyes.

"I know that I love her now," he said to himself.

And he was right. There are secret humiliations to which no man would submit, as such, but from which love, when it is real, can take away the sting and the poison. The man of heart, who does not love but is loved in spite of himself, fears to accept a sacrifice, lest in so doing he should seem to declare his readiness to do as he is done by, from like motives.

But when love is on both sides there is no such drawing back from love's responsibilities. The sacrifice is accepted not only with grat.i.tude, but with joy, as a debt of which the repayment by sacrifice again const.i.tutes in itself a happiness. And thus, perhaps, it is that they love best who love in sorrow and in want, in worldly poverty and in distress of soul, for they alone can know what joy it is to receive, and what yet infinitely greater joy lies in giving all when all is sorely needed.

But as the Count dwelt on the circ.u.mstances he saw also what it was that Vjera had done, and he wondered how she could have found the strength to do it. He did not, indeed, say to himself that for his sake she had parted with her only beauty, for he had never considered whether she were good-looking or not. The bond between them was of a different nature, and would not have been less strong had Vjera been absolutely ugly instead of being merely, what is called, plain. He would have loved her as well, had she been a cripple, or deformed, just as she loved him in spite of his madness. But he knew well enough how women, even the most wretched, value their hair when it is beautiful, what care they bestow upon it and what consolation they derive from the rich, silken coil denied to fairer women than themselves. There is something in the thought of cutting off the heavy tress and selling it which appeals to the pity of most people, and which, to women themselves, is full of horror. A man might have felt the same in those days when long locks were the distinctive outward sign of n.o.bility in man, and perhaps the respect of that obsolete custom has left in the minds of most people a sort of unconscious tradition. However that may be, we all feel that in one direction, at least, a woman's sacrifice can go no further than in giving her head to the shears.