Nastka took the grimy paper from her hands and, sitting down on the step of the stile, while Teresa seated herself on the upper bar, made a painful attempt to read it. Teresa, with her hands on her chin, gazed in terror at the cabalistic signs that Nastka was trying to spell out. But she could make out no more than “Praised be Jesus Christ!” at the beginning.
“I cannot read any farther: ’tis useless. But Matthew would manage, no doubt.”
She flushed a deep purple, and returned in a faint voice: “O Nastka! I do entreat you, tell him naught of this letter!”
“Were it but in print! I can read any book, I know the letters perfectly.—But I can make nothing of these strokes and crooks and curls. … Just like a fly dipped into ink, and crawling over the paper.”
“But, Nastka, you’ll not tell him?”
“Only yesterday I said to you that I could not be mixed up in this.—But, if your man is coming home, all will have to come out!” she added, rising to her feet.
Teresa could not answer a word; the tears she was trying to keep back choked her.
Nastka withdrew, rather out of humour, calling her fowls as she went; and Teresa, making up five ducks’ eggs in a bundle, went to the organist’s.
She was a good while getting there, stopping as she did every while, and slinking about in the shade, and staring at the incomprehensible symbols before her.
“Perchance he is returning. …”
She writhed in the grip of dread, her knees shook, her heart throbbed wildly; with misty eyes she staggered on, as one in sore need of succour; more than once she had to lean against the trees not to fall.
“And perhaps he is only writing about money! …”
Her steps began to flag; the letter had become a burden, a torment to her; she was always shifting it from hands to bosom and back again.
Nobody seemed at home at the organist’s. All the doors were open, all the rooms empty. One window had a petticoat hung up in lieu of curtain, and a sound of snoring proceeded thence. She advanced timidly towards the passage, looking round her at the yard. A servant-girl was sitting at the kitchen-door, churning butter and driving flies away with a bough.
“Where’s your mistress?”
“In the garden; ye’ll hear her soon!”
Teresa remained standing there, crushing the letter in her hand, and drawing her kerchief forward over her head, for the sun was now shining directly from above the sheds.
Fowls cackled noisily from the priest’s yard, separated only by a hedge from the other: ducks were riotous in pools, little turkeys plaintively clamorous near the hedge; big gobbling turkey-cocks, with drooping wings, made furious onsets at sucking-pigs wallowing in the mire; and pigeons circled in air, slowly settling—a snow-white cloud—on the red roof.
Teresa’s eyes were wet. She averted her face to ask:
“Is the organist within?”
“Where else? His Reverence is away, so he has lain down to sleep again.”
“The priest has gone to the fair, no doubt?”
“Ah, yes; to purchase a bull.”
“What, has he not possessions enough?”
“Whoso has much wants more,” the servant grunted.
Teresa was silent awhile. It was hard that she should have so little, and others so much!
“Mistress is coming!” the servant announced, working the dasher up and down in the churn so violently that the cream spurted out.
“ ’Tis all your doing, lazy boy! you let the horse into the clover on purpose because ye had no mind to go as far as the fallows!” she was heard to scream. “Two rods of clover eaten! But I’ll tell your uncle at once, you good-for-nothing, and you’ll get such a beating!”
“But I drove it to the fallows myself, I did, and tethered it to the ring!”
“No lies! Your uncle will have a talk with you!”
“But I tell you, Aunt, I did not drive any horse there.”
“Who did, then? His Reverence, eh?” she asked sarcastically.
“Ye have guessed, Aunt. Aye, the priest has grazed his horses there,” the lad replied, raising his voice.
“Are you mad? Hold your tongue, lest someone hear.”
“I will not! To his face I’ll say it!—I went at daybreak to fetch the horses in; the bay one was lying down, the mare feeding: both just where I had left them last night. I loosed them and mounted the bay one, when I saw horses grazing in our clover. It was grey dawn.—I rode on aslant, nigh the priest’s garden, to head them off; so I passed along Klemba’s pathway. And then I saw the priest saying his breviary, and looking round, and whipping his horses further and further into the clover!”
“Hush, Michael! … What an unheard-of thing! … The priest himself! … I always said that last year’s hay. … But silence; here comes a woman.”
She waddled in hurriedly, and the organist called for Michael from under his bedclothes.
Teresa handed over her eggs, embraced the goodwife’s knees, and begged to know the contents of her husband’s letter.
“Just wait a little.”
Some time later, they called her into the room. The organist, scantily attired—in shirt and drawers only—was taking his morning coffee. He began to read to her.
Her heart died within her as she listened. Yes, he—her husband—was coming back at harvest-time, along with Kuba Yarchyk of Vola, and Gregory, Boryna’s son! The letter was affectionate: he longed to see her, asked about everyone at home, sent messages to his acquaintances, and felt brimming over with gladness at the thought of returning. Gregory added a few words, asking her to tell his father he was coming. Poor fellow! he little knew what had taken place.
Those kind words smote Teresa like a whip and cut her to the heart. She did her best to bear up against this dreadful news, but her eyes were soon wet and streamed with telltale drops.
“How pleased she is
