“Pray speak the truth!”
“It is as I say. Matthew was at the mill, boasting in the presence of some men that he had been with you in your bedroom. … And Antek heard, and gave him a beating.”
“Spare me your jests; I have no mind to hear them!”
“Will you not believe me? Then ask the whole village; they will tell you the same. Did I say that Matthew was speaking true? Nay, I only repeated the village talk.”
“He is a liar … a foul liar and a villain!”
“Who can protect you from evil tongues? They will often slander you beyond the grave.”
“ ’Tis well … ’tis well he beat him! … I fain would add to the beating!” she hissed vindictively.
“Oho! The chicken’s claws turn a hawk’s talons!”
“Aye! for the lie he told, I would kill him on the spot, the false hound!”
“To everyone I say he lies, but they believe me not, and backbite you.”
“Oh, but Antek will silence them—cut their tongues out!”
Yagustynka leered at her maliciously. “Is he to fight the whole world for you, eh?”
“O you Judas woman, you! With your sly hints and whispers, and the joy you take in giving pain!”
Yagna was now in a towering passion; perhaps she had never yet been so angry in her life. What she felt would have been beyond bearing, but for Antek’s conduct that she now heard of. She was flooded with tenderness, and unspeakable gratitude filled her heart that he had so well taken her part and avenged her. Nevertheless, she exhibited so much ill temper at everything that went on in the house, and rated Yuzka and Vitek so sternly for every trifle, that old Boryna felt uneasy, and came to sit by her side, stroking her face and asking:
“What is it ails my Yagna?”
“What should ail me? Naught.—Let me be: would ye make love before everybody?” And she pushed him roughly away.
“He would soothe and blandish and cuddle her, would he? That withered fellow, that spent worn-out old man!” she thought, and a feeling of strong dislike welled up within her. Not till now had she noticed his age: now, for the first time, there came to her a sense of loathing, a deep-seated repugnance, almost hatred. She now looked upon him with glad concealed contempt; for he had really aged a good deal in these last days: his hands were shaking, and he dragged his feet and stooped.
“That nerveless old driveller!”
She shook herself with disgust, and set to thinking all the more intensely of Antek. No longer did she strive against the memories that pressed upon her, nor seek not to hear those sweet tempting whispers of his.
The day dragged on, intolerably slow. Every minute she would go out into the porch, or as far as the orchard behind the hut, and look through the trees at the fields beyond … or lean against the wattled fence which stood between her and the village road that ran past the farm buildings. With wistful looks, she would scan the countryside—the snow-covered lands—the dark forest at the skyline. … But she took note of nothing, so deep was she plunged in the joyous knowledge that he cared for her, and would let no one do her wrong.
“And he would serve anyone the same! What a man he is, what a fighter!” she thought with tender admiration. “Oh, if he came in sight now, I could not resist him for one instant!”
The haystack stood close by, near the road, but at some distance within the field. Flocks of sparrows chirruped round it, and took shelter in a great hole that had been scooped out of one side. The farm-lad, though ordered by Boryna to go up and take the hay always from the top, had not cared to do so, but pulled truss after truss out of the side, till enough had gone to form a sort of small den, in which two persons might easily find room.
“Come out—come out behind the haystack!” Her mind was continually repeating Antek’s petition. But now she ran back to the hut; the bells were beginning to ring for Vespers, and she herself had a longing to go to church, in the vague hope of meeting him there.
Him she did not meet: but instead, in the very entrance, she saw Hanka, greeted her, and held back for her to put her hand first into the holy water stoup. But Hanka neither made answer nor stretched out her hand to the stoup, but passed on, darting out of her eyes a look at her—a deadly look! as though she would have stoned her willingly.
Yagna’s eyes grew dim. Such a slight! so open an exhibition of hate! Yet, from the pew in which she seated herself, she could not help fixing her eyes on that pallid face.
“Antek’s wife—and so haggard, so ghastly to see! Well, well!” But her thoughts soon wandered away from Hanka. They were singing in the choir, and the organ played sweet music, so low and soft and mysterious that it absorbed all her attention. Never, no, never had she felt so happy in church, so serenely blissful! She did not even say prayers; her book lay before her unopened; her beads were in her hand, but she did not tell them. She sighed dreamily, and looked up to see the shadows creeping slowly in through the windows, and to gaze on the pictures, the scintillating lights, the gilded woodwork, and the now scarce visible many-coloured decorations. Amongst all these marvels, her soul soared up, lost itself in the painted skies, in the chanted prayers and the faint dying melodies that she heard. Dissolved in a serene ecstasy, oblivious of everything round her, she fancied she saw the saints come down out of their pictures, approach her with smiles of infinite kindness, and stretch forth their hands in blessings over her and over all the people.
She ceased to dream only when Evensong was at an end and the
