“I feel like a widow now,” she said; “I am alone, and must take thought for the little ones and for everything.”
That same evening she went to see the Klembas and other acquaintances, and ask them how things were going on at Boryna’s, whose words, so lately heard, were ever in her mind.
Instead, however, of going at once to him, she waited a few days more; and it was only when Ash-Wednesday had come round that she put on her best clothes, committed her little ones to Veronka’s keeping, and—without even preparing breakfast—made ready to go out.
“Whither away so early?” Antek inquired.
“To the Ash-Wednesday service,” she replied, slowly and evasively.
“Will you not get breakfast ready?”
“Get ye to the tavern; the Jew will give you credit still,” she could not help answering: the words came out unawares.
He started up, as if he had got a blow; but she went out unheeding.
Now his shouts, his fury, affrighted her no more. He was a stranger, and so remote from her that she was herself astonished. And though, from time to time, something like the last flicker of her old fondness rose up in her heart from embers now covered over and trodden down, she at once quenched them by recalling the memory of her inexpiable wrongs.
When she entered the poplar road, the faithful were just repairing to church.
It was a singularly bright day for the season. The sun was just in the east; the thin surfaces which the night had frozen on the snows had not yet been melted by the thaw. From the thatches there hung strings as of glittering crystal beads; the waters, frozen in the roads and ditches, gleamed like so many mirrors, and the frosted trees sparkled in the sun. In the pure blue sky, there were suspended a multitude of tiny milk-white clouds, that floated in the light like a flock of sheep playing in a great field full of azure flax-blossoms. The air was pure, cold, and so bracing that inhaling it was a pleasure. The whole countryside looked gay, the pools glistened; the snows shone with glassy golden reflection; the children were frisking and sliding about with joyous cries; an old man here and there, propped against a wall, basked in the bright warm rays; even the dogs, as they chased the crows come to pick up food, barked with a merry bark.
But, on entering the church, Hanka passed immediately into an atmosphere of deep, cold, religious silence. A low mass was just being read at the high altar; and the people, devoutly attentive and lost in fervent prayer, formed a dense crowd in the nave, upon which long streams of light were pouring down.
Hanka cared little to mix with the crowd then. She went into an aisle so gloomy that it had no light at all, save a few ice-cold streaks; for she desired to be alone with her own soul and with God. Down she knelt before a side-altar consecrated to the Assumption and, kissing the pavement, stretched out her arms, fixed her eyes on the sweet face of the “Mother of Mercy,” and was soon absorbed in prayer.
And now at last, at the holy feet of her, the “Comforter of the Afflicted,” she burst out into complaints, laying bare all the wounds of her soul with the deepest humility and the most boundless trust, and confessing all her sins from the bottom of her heart. Before our Lady—the Mother of the Polish Nation—she truly repented of all her transgressions. For lo! she had sinned, since she had been punished by the Lord Jesus!
“Aye, I have been unkind to my neighbours, I have set myself above them, quarrelled sometimes, and not been cleanly, and have loved good cheer, been lazy in working and slothful in God’s service: I have sinned.” Such was the fervent cry of her soul, bleeding with contrition, and she prayed most earnestly that God might forgive Antek’s most grievous sins. Oh, how, and with what ardour, did she beg for mercy! Even as a fowl which, about to be killed, makes a frantic dash to the window beats at the panes, and pipes in a mournful voice, begging for its poor life!
Her whole frame shook with weeping; and from out of her soul, as from a bleeding wound, there poured a stream of prayers; and her tears, like bloodstained pearls, trickled down and watered the icy pavement.
Mass was over; and the whole congregation, deeply contrite, went forward to the altar railings, there to receive with bended heads the ashes with which the priest, uttering aloud a penitential prayer, crossed their brows as they knelt.
Without awaiting the close of the service, Hanka went out, greatly strengthened, and full of trust in God’s help.
With head erect, she replied to all who greeted her, and—bold and brave at last—met many a curious eye as she went by. But it was not without a quiver of emotion that she at length reached Boryna’s enclosure.
Lord! how very long it was since she had been within! And yet, how many a time had she, sorrowfully and from afar, approached to have a glimpse of it! Now she could view all the place—cabin, outhouses, hedges, trees covered with hoarfrost—with eyes as full of affectionate remembrance as if all that had been part and parcel of her own being, of her life!
Her soul was glad and jocund within her. Scarcely had she got to the porch, when Lapa dashed out and jumped upon her, joyfully whining; and then Yuzka came out, astounded, and hardly believing her senses.
“Hanka! Good Lord! Hanka!”
“Yes, it is I: don’t you know me?—Is Father in the house?”
“Surely, surely!—Ah, ye have come at last, ye have come, Hanka!”
