“And perhaps, too, I may see him!” she thought dreamily, turning her face towards the wind and the dews which fell dripping from the drying blooms and leaves.
“Yagna!” shouted Yuzka from the yard; “are ye going to help in the potato-field or not?”
Yes; she did not mind. She even willingly obeyed an order that took her away from herself and her incertitude: though she was still under the influence of a melancholy which brought tears to her eyes. But she set to work with such goodwill that she had presently distanced all the hired workers; and so she kept on, paying no heed to Yagustynka’s taunts and gibes, nor to the eyes of the other women, that followed her every movement with the air of surly dogs ready to bite.
At times, indeed, she would straighten herself for a moment, as does a pear-tree after bending to the blast, showering its scented blossoms on every side, and (perhaps) remembering the past storms of winter.
She thought of Antek sometimes, but more often of Yanek’s glowing eyes, and of Yanek’s cherry lips; and the sound of Yanek’s voice echoed in her ears. And she clung with all the force of her will to those yearnings of her memories: they made such sunshine in her heart! For her nature was that of the wild hop, that for its growth and blossoming and life, must needs twine round some other plant; else, left without support, it falls and perishes.
The komorniki, having flung whispers about to their hearts’ content, were now taking kerchiefs and aprons off their heads, because it had grown warm; they talked louder among themselves, and stretched their limbs, yawning and longing for the noonday rest.
“Kozlova, ye are highest: pray look whether no one is coming along the poplar road.”
She stood on tiptoe, but answered: “No one in sight!”
“They cannot so soon be here; the way is long: they will come at dusk.”
“Besides,” Yagustynka added, after her bitter fashion, “there are five taverns by the way!”
“Poor things! what do they care for taverns?”
“They have had so much to bear all this time!”
“Oh, indeed! they have had to bear warm beds and plenty to eat!”
“Of fare no better than nettles and chaff!”
“Also, freedom with a potato is better than the very best jail!” Gregory’s wife said.
“A strange thing,” Yagustynka mused, “is that same freedom, that we relish so: freedom to starve without paying a fine, nor being taken by the gendarmes.”
“Very true, my dear; but captivity is captivity all the same.”
“And a dish of peas and bacon is not a broth made of aspen pegs!” Yagustynka replied, mimicking her voice so that they all burst out laughing.
She followed up her success by abusing the miller, who “lent rotten flour to borrowers and gave short weight when paid in cash”; and then, in concert with Kozlova, set to running down everybody in Lipka, his Reverence not excepted.
Gregory’s wife tried to stand up for some: which made Kozlova cry:
“Ye would fain defend even church-robbers!”
“For we all have much need of being defended,” she answered gently.
“Especially Gregory, when ye lift your hand-mangle against him!”
“Right and wrong have naught to do with you, you wife of Bartek Koziol!” she returned in a hard voice, drawing herself up to her full height.
All were fluttered, and expected the two would come to blows at once; but they went no further than a defiant glare. And then Vitek came to ask them to dinner, and to take their baskets, the afternoon being a half-holiday.
At dinner, which Hanka served out to them outside the cabin, they talked but little. The sun was shining bright, and everything looked beautiful, with snowy blossoms scattered all about.
The day continued fine, and the breeze moved the treetops as gently as the hand of a mother caressing her little one’s cheeks.
No more fieldwork, then, was done that day. Even the cattle were driven home: only a few of the poorest villagers led the hungry cow (their food-giver) by a rope to graze along the field-paths, or about the ditches.
When the sun had begun to throw somewhat longer shadows, the people gathered in front of the church, conversing in tones as low as the chirping of the birds within the lofty maples and lime-trees that spread their branches, scarce covered as yet with leaves, above the church-roof.
As usual when it has rained in the morning, the sun was hot. The women, in holiday garments, stood together in groups, some of them looking eagerly over the wall towards the poplar road; and the blind dziad sat with his dog at the lich-gate, droning hymns in a singsong whine, listening attentively to every sound he heard, and holding out a platter to the passersby.
In a little, his Reverence came out, clad in surplice and stole, but with uncovered head, his bald crown glistening in the sun.
Pete carried the cross, for the way was too far for Ambrose; the Voyt, the Soltys, and some of the strongest girls bore the banners, which waved and flapped and gleamed resplendent with many a hue. Michael, the organist’s pupil, swung the holy-water stoup and brandished the sprinkler; Ambrose distributed the tapers; and the organist, book in hand, took his place by the side of his Reverence. So they started off in silence, through the blossom-sprinkled village; and as they went along the pond, its still waters reflected the whole pageant.
On the way, many more women and children joined them; and finally the miller and the smith pressed in by the priest’s side. Last of all, lagging far behind, came Agata shaken with her churchyard cough, and the blind old dziad, swinging along
