“Veronka,” Hanka said to her in a whisper, “here is his Reverence himself, come to see you!”
She started at the words, and, seeing the priest, fell at his feet in a tempest of tears.
“Peace, be still; do not weep.—What is to be done? It is—aye, it is—God’s will!” he said twice, brushing a tear away, and deeply moved.
“We must go hence, and beg our bread through the world!”
“No, no; do not give way so. There are kindly folk, and they will not suffer you to perish. Moreover, the Lord will help you in His own way. Has any one of you been hurt? No?”
“In that, God has been merciful.”
“Truly, a marvellous escape!”
“They might well have all been crushed to death, like Ploshka’s geese,” someone said.
“Yes,” another remarked, “all without exception.”
“Any cattle or live stock lost, eh?”
“God ordered things so that all was then in the enclosure and nothing lost.”
The priest, taking a pinch of snuff, looked round at the heap of rubbish, all that remained of their cabin; and his eyes again brimmed with tears.
“Really, it is a very great mercy. Ye might have been all crushed flat.”
“But had that been, I should not be looking on these ruins now, nor live to see our home destroyed. O my Jesus, my Jesus! Here am I with my little ones, homeless! What shall I do, and whither shall I go?” she cried once more, and tore her hair in despair.
The priest shifted uneasily, and spread his hands out with a gesture of indecision. Someone slipped a plank under his feet, saying: “Lest your feet be wetted!” And, indeed, the mud was ankle-deep. He moved on to the plank, and took another pinch of snuff, considering what he should say to comfort her.
Hanka was busily engaged with her sister and father, while the other women pressed round the priest, and feasted their eyes on him.
More women and children were arriving every instant, and their clogs splashed through the mud, and the gathering crowd made comments in hushed voices, amongst which the sobs, now less violent, of Veronka and her children were heard. On all the faces around, so far as they were visible, with their aprons pulled down over their brows, there were seen much sorrow and deep concern, dark as the cloudy sky overhead: hot tears rolled down many a cheek.
But, in their concern and sorrow, they were calm, and resigned to this visitation of God on their poor neighbour. “What then! should everyone take the affairs of others too much to heart, what room would be left for his own?”
After a pause, the priest turned to Veronka, and said: “Above all things, ye ought to thank the Lord God that your lives have been spared.”
“Surely, and if I have to sell my pig for it, I will get the wherewithal for a Mass.”
“No need for that. Keep your money for your most urgent wants: I shall say Mass for you as soon after Easter as the Rubric allows.”
She kissed his hands gratefully, and clasped his feet, peasant-fashion, whilst he gave her his blessing with the sign of the cross, and, like the best of fathers, caressed the little ones who came crowding round him.
“Now, tell me the manner of it.”
“The manner of it?—Why, we went to bed early, having no oil in our lamp, and no wood to make a fire. It blew hard, and the cabin shook, but I had no fear, because it had resisted fiercer gales. The draughts in the room kept me awake for some time, but I must have fallen into a doze at last. All at once, there was a crashing banging sound, and the noise of the walls splitting. O Lord! I thought, the world is falling to pieces!—Out of bed I leapt, but had hardly taken my little ones in my arms, when everything overhead began to crack and break down. I just got to the porch outside, while the roof was thundering down upon me. Ere I got my wits back, the chimney too fell with an awful noise. In the yard it was blowing fearfully: we could scarce stand, and the thatch went piecemeal down the wind. I had a good way to go to the village in the night; all were sleeping sound there, and I could make no one hear me. So I returned and took shelter with the children in the potato-pit till morning.”
“God was watching over you.—That cow, tethered to the cherry-tree, whose is she?”
“Ours. She feeds us: we owe our lives to her alone.”
“A good milker, no doubt: loins as straight as a beam.—With calf, I see?”
“She will calve in a few days.”
“Take her over to my cow-house; there is room, and she may stay till the grass is grown.—Now, where will you dwell? Tell me where.”
At that moment a dog fell a-barking and made a fierce onset upon the people there. Driven off, it sat down on the threshold, and howled dismally.
The priest had shrunk back at its attack. “Is that dog mad?” he asked. “Whose is it?”
“ ’Tis Kruchek, our dog. Aye, the misfortune has made it daft. A good watchdog,” stammered Bylitsa, hastening to silence it.
The priest then took his leave, beckoning to Sikora’s wife to follow him. Holding out both hands to the goodwives who pressed forward to kiss them, he walked away slowly, but was seen for some time talking with the women upon the road.
The womenfolk, having duly pitied their unfortunate neighbour, now departed hastily, all at once remembering breakfast and the work before them.
No one remained about the ruins except the family; and they were thinking how to rescue something more out of the wrecked hut, when Sikora’s wife came up, breathless.
“Your abode must be with me, on that side of the cabin where Roch has been teaching. There’s no chimney, to be sure, but you can arrange a makeshift fireplace that will do for the nonce,” she said hastily.
“But, good
