Agata crept away: she could not believe the news. On her way, she saw several women whom she knew, and who greeted her kindly; but she made as though she had not heard them, and of set purpose went as slowly as she could, putting off the dread confirmation of what the old woman had told her. She lingered long, gazing here and there, unwilling to know the worst.
At last, however, she made bold to enter Klemba’s hut, which was at hand; but she trembled all over, and looked with frightened eyes at the orchard and the cottage in the background. Close to the windows, the cows were drinking noisily out of a large tub; and on the other end of the long open passage through the hut, she could see a sow with her little ones wallowing in the mud, and fowls looking eagerly for food on the dunghill. The tub was empty now. Taking it up (for she somehow felt more courage, coming in thus with something in her hand), she entered the large dusky room, and “praised God.”
“Who is that?” answered a plaintive voice from the inner chamber.
“ ’Tis I—Agata.” With what a catch in her voice did she utter the words!
“Agata! Well, I never … !” said Dame Klemba, appearing suddenly on the threshold, with her apron full of little goslings, while their mothers came hissing and gaggling round her.
“Ah! God be thanked! And folk said ye had died so long ago as last Yuletide; only no one knew where, and my goodman even went to the police office to find out.—Take a seat; ye must be tired.—You see, our geese have been hatching.”
“A goodly brood! What a number, too!”
“Yes: threescore less five.—Come out in front of the house; I must feed them and take care lest the old ones trample them down.”
She let them escape from her apron, and they began to run about, fluffy like yellow catkins; while the mother birds came up, gaggling with pleasure, and stretching out their long necks over them.
Dame Klemba brought them a mixture of minced eggs, nettle-leaves, and groats, set out on a board, and squatted down to protect them; for the parents, with loud indignant screams, tried hard to get at the food, and tread the little ones down and peck at them.
Agata sat down in front of the house. “They are all marked with grey between the wings,” she said.
“ ’Tis the mark of their breed: very large-sized. I got the eggs from the organist’s wife: one in exchange for every three of mine.—Ah, ’tis well you have come; there’s so much work, one does not know what to do first.”
“I will bestir myself at once—at once!”
She made an effort to rise, meaning to set about doing something or other; but her strength failed her, and she reeled against the wall.
“Evidently,” the other said, noting her livid face, and her strangely swollen and discomposed appearance, “evidently ye are too much used up to be of service any more.”
She was vexed to see her like this; it was clear to her that the woman would not only be useless, but cause no little trouble besides.
Agata must have guessed what she felt, and said in a timid apologetic tone:
“Do not fear: I will not cumber you, nor intrude on your meals. I shall but rest awhile, and then go away. I merely wanted to see you all, and ask about you.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.
“Well, but I am not turning you out.—Sit down; you will only leave us if you choose.”
“Where are the lads?” she asked presently. “In the fields with Thomas, I suppose?”
“Have ye not heard, then, that they are all in jail?”
Agata joined her hands in silent agony.
“Yagustynka had told me as much, but I could not believe it.”
“Ah! she told you the truth—gospel truth!”
She drew herself up stiffly and wept, as she remembered what had happened.
“Aye, it was as a very Doomsday for Lipka. They were taken away to town, all of them—all!—How I outlived it, I cannot tell. … ’Twas three weeks ago now, and it is as fresh in my mind as a thing of yesterday. Only Maciek, and the girls who are in the fields spreading dung, and I, poor wretched creature, have been left!
“Get away!” she suddenly cried to the geese. “Would ye then kill your own children as swine do? Would ye?”
And she called together the goslings, which were all going off into the enclosure after the mother birds.
“Nay, let them run about,” said Agata; “no hawk is in sight, and I will look after them.”
“Ye can scarce drag your limbs: how should you run after geese?”
“Ever since I crossed your threshold, I have felt better.”
“Then try.—I will get you some food. Shall I boil milk for you?”
“Thanks, mistress, but on Saturdays in Lent I never take milk. Give me a pot of boiling water. I have bread with me, and shall crumble it in and eat.”
In a little, Dame Klemba brought her a dish of hot water, seasoned with salt, and Agata took her meal of crumbled bread. Meanwhile the former told her all about the battle, its causes, and its end. How Boryna’s skull had been cracked by the keeper, whom Antek slew in his turn to avenge his father; how the old man had been lying insensible ever since; how others too had been badly hurt in the fight, and how little they cared for that, because they won the victory.
“But,” she went on to say, “on the following Sunday, not four days after, when wet snow was falling thick, and one could hardly step out of doors, we were preparing to go to church, when the Gulbas lads came round, shouting: ‘The gendarmes are here!’
“So indeed they were—thirty of them, besides officials and justices … a whole court!—and they quartered themselves upon the priest. Then they set about putting questions and
