“Good dog! good dog!—Whence come you, Vitek?”
He told him of all, omitting the money given.
“Come one of these days and see my children.”
“Yes, yes; I have made a cart for little Peter, and another funny figure besides.”
“Do not forget to bring them.—And here is something for yourself.”
“I’ll come this very day, but first I must see if master is home yet.”
“Is he out?” Antek inquired, with poorly assumed indifference.
“At the miller’s, taking counsel with the Squire and a few more.”
“Mistress at home?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“Aye: busy at work. I’ll just look in there and be back.”
“Yes, come to us!” he said, and would have made more inquiries; but, though it was late, people were still about; moreover, the boy, a feather-headed fellow, might blab and let things out. So he walked on swiftly, looking round when near the church to see if he was watched, and then turned aside, taking a path that ran by the granaries. Vitek meanwhile made for the cabin.
Boryna had not come yet: the family room was in shadow, save for the brands which glowed dully on the hearth. Yagna was preparing the evening meal, and in evil humour; for Yuzka had gone off again somewhere, and there was so much to do, one did not know what to begin first. She gave no heed to what Vitek said, until he mentioned Antek’s name; it arrested her attention and she paused in her work.
“Tell no one that he gave you money!”
“Since mistress forbids me, I’ll not breathe a word of it!”
“Here are five kopeks more, for you to remember.—Did he go home?”
Without waiting for an answer, she suddenly ran out into the porch, calling for Pete, whilst she peered into the orchard and courtyard, with searching, yet frightened glances. She even went out to look beyond the shed and about the haystack. No one was there. … This quieted her, but also tried her patience. She rated Yuzka for not having given the cows their drink, and for her continual idleness; to which the little girl, being bold and fierce and by no means tongue-tied, was not slow to answer back. And they had a quarrel, each saying very sharp things.
“Gabble, gabble your fill! your father is coming, and his strap will silence you!” she threatened her, lighting the lamp, and taking up her spinning again. Yuzka went on grumbling, but no one replied to her; Yagna had just heard, she thought, someone passing outside the corner window.
“Vitek, look outside; I think that one of our swine has got out of the sty and is in the orchard now.”
But he assured her he had driven them all in and made the door fast. Yuzka went to the other side of the hut and brought tubs, Pete helping her, for the cows to drink from; then she ran for the milking-pails.
“I myself shall milk them; after so much labour, ye need rest.”
“Yes, milk them, do! Once more ye will leave the udders half full!” Yuzka snapped at her.
“Hold your peace, you had best!” she cried in a fury, as she put her clogs on, tucked up her petticoat, and went to the cowshed with a couple of pails.
Night had fallen, the wind was hushed, the white snow-mist settling down. But the sky above hung black, starless, packed close with small low-lying clouds; the fields loomed a dark grey; an oppressive lull prevailed everywhere. Not a voice was heard in the village, nor any sound but the hammers, beating, clinking, clinking, beating, on the anvil in the forge.
In the byre it was close and dark; the kine were drinking the water, and noisily licking, with muffled gurgles, the bottom of the tubs as they emptied them.
Yagna groped and found the milking-stool, sat down by the first cow in the row, felt her udder, wiped it clean, and, propping her head against the animal’s flanks, began her work.
The milk spurted rhythmically into the resounding pail; the hoofs of the horses pawed in the adjoining stable; from the cabin, muffled, yet audible, came the noise of Yuzka’s chattering.
“Aye, she babbles and babbles, but does not peel the potatoes!” Yagna muttered, bending a most attentive ear; for now the snow outside was crackling under—it seemed to her—the steps of someone coming from the shed. … They stopped … all was still again … they approached—the snow crackled louder.—Turning her head toward the glimmering outlines of the open door, she saw a figure dimly silhouetted there.
“Pete!” she cried.
“Hush, Yagna, hush!”
“Antek!”
Motionless, palsy-stricken at the sight and words, she could not articulate one syllable, nor even think. Instinctively she went on milking, but the milk squirted on to her petticoat, or fell on the ground. A fit of fever had seized upon her; a gust, as it were, of fiery flame swept through all her being, flashing lightnings before her eyes, tearing at her heartstrings with delicious pain. And then something caught her and throttled her so, she had like to fall dead on the spot.
“Ever since Yuletide,” he whispered, “I have been as a watchdog, waiting and watching for you, there, by the haystack … and you did not come once.”
That voice of his! Strangled, passionate, flaming with love, it overwhelmed her with the might of its clamorous outcry to her heart, and of the sweet irresistible fire it bore. He stood facing her, leaning (as she could feel) against the cow’s flank, bending down and gazing upon her—so near that she could feel his hot breath upon her brow.
“Do not fear me, Yagna. No one has seen; fear nothing. … I could bear it no longer, it was impossible: day and night and always, you stand before mine eyes, Yagna.—Will you not say one word?”
“What—what can I say?” she faltered tearfully.
Then they both were silent. Emotion made them mute, and the very closeness of one to the other, the very solitude in common that they had so much desired, now took all power from them, and weighed them down—a
